Redemption
by Lucy Van Pelt
Summary: This is the Third Part of the Protection series. Spike and Buffy have to realize that Dawn is maturing and needs a life of her own. But as her protectors, they have a little trouble letting go. *complete*
1. Default Chapter

TITLE:  Redemption

PAIRING:  Buffy and Spike

RATING:  R (Light smut and shameless product placement)

SPOILERS:  Hopefully season six spoilers

DISCLAIMER:  Joss is the hottie.  I am the 'shipper.

SUMMARY:  This is a sort of follow up to Fever, for those of you who have read it.  In this setting, Spike is living with Buffy and Dawn in a low-income apartment building in Sunnydale, Buffy works as a waitress at the Bronze, Dawn is in high school and about to go on her first date, and Spike…well, he really, really loves the Slayer.

_My boyfriend is dead and has been for over 120 years.   He has killed many people…thousands upon thousands, maybe even a million.  I couldn't tell you.  My boyfriend has not drawn a single, life giving breath for over a century.  My boyfriend has not felt the sunlight on his face since the late 1800's, except for a brief time when a magical ring allowed him to be impervious to the sun, impervious to my stake, impervious to even a splash of holy water.  My boyfriend likes TV.  Specifically, he likes old shows on TV land, reality shows, and soap operas.  My boyfriend makes frequent trips to the fridge, looking to see if I've bought anything from the butcher's shop for him lately.  There's always a carton in there for him.  My boyfriend is very low-maintenance; just give him some blood and he's happy.  My boyfriend has about ten black tee shirts and ten pairs of black jeans, all that I launder for him, once a week.  My boyfriend keeps a school picture of my sister, shoved deep into his back pocket, which I must search for it every time I do the laundry.  On the back of the photo, in my sister's out of control teenage scrawl, is the message, "I hate this picture.  It makes my teeth look bad.  Love, Sweet Bit."  My boyfriend has only one black coat though that he won't even allow out of his sight.  My boyfriend growls occasionally in his sleep and talks about things that I'd rather not know about.  "Gonna kill…Mmm…gonna kill…no…"  My boyfriend says I say similar things in my sleep.  My boyfriend has never really taken me out on a date.  My boyfriend has never been introduced to anyone outside my circle of friends, or to my father.    My boyfriend smokes…he smokes all the time, but never in the house.  My boyfriend cannot see himself in the mirror.  My boyfriend does not have a beating heart.  My boyfriend has a hard time dealing with right and wrong.  My boyfriend lies next to me, cold._

            Her boyfriend adjusts his position next to her until his head is lying on her chest.  She has been watching his eyelids droop for over an hour and has wondered when he might tell her what he says to her now.

            "I'm going for a nap, Slayer,"  he says in a near whisper.  "Wake me when _Hogan's Heroes is on."_

            "I will,"  Buffy says.

            Before completely settling, he lifts his head and kisses her.  "I love you,"  he says.

            "I love you too,"  she answers.

            He moves one more time, clears his throat a couple times, and then relaxes his torso on top of hers.  She clasps a hand around the back of his head, holding her to him, taking a few moments to comb her hands through the mass of unruly curls he has allowed to sprout out since they have been together.  She bends to kiss him and watches as the touch of her lips sparks a smile on his face that remains even as he heads towards sleep.

            _Yeah, my boyfriend may be dead, but he's completely adorable._

            Buffy is the last to pad out of bed this particular morning.  And even when she does, morning doesn't seem like such a good idea.  Was there a night at all?  When she set the alarm for 7:00 did it become 7:00 right then and there?

            She walks into the kitchen and finds her sister already at the table, being entertained by the blond, wiggly haired man who has shared her bed the last night and every night for a while.  He has just made himself at home, it seems.  Pouring coffee, getting into the frozen waffles he knows---HE KNOWS!---are for Saturdays only, and dipping his Wheatabix into the carton he holds in his hand as he laughs at something Dawn has said.

            "Oh, God, Peter is such a jerk,"  Dawn says as Buffy is just about to walk into the kitchen.  "Like, he totally told Mr. Lumford that he didn't do his homework because he's got lime disease or something."

            "Well, does he?"  Spike asks.

            "No!  If anything, he's just got, 'Must be an asshole in class disorder.'"

            "Well, from what I hear about the current Sunnydale High, that disorder is growing to epic proportions."

            "No, shi----Mmm, Buffy!"  Dawn is suddenly arrested by the sight of her older sister leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyebrows raised.  The "y" sound at the end of Buffy's name comes out in a dog yelp almost.

            "Good morning,"  Buffy says, averting Spike's eyes as she looks at her sister intently.

            "Good morning, Buffy,"  Dawn says, her eyes moving widely about the space around her.  She seems to want to spring up from her seat, but then she remains, her posterior settling uncomfortably on her chair as she looks at her corn flakes.

            "Sweetheart!"  Spike exclaims, sliding off the counter top and bounding over to her.  Before she can even register a complaint, he takes her into his arms.  He gives her one of those exaggerated, Hollywood kisses if only for the reason that he doesn't want to allow her time to accuse him of being a bad influence again.  

            "Nice language you're teaching her,"  she whispers sharply into his ear.

            "Would you rather I teach her how to rip a man's heart out of his chest and show it to him while he's still breathing?"

            "No, of course not!"

            He kisses her softly.  "Then be happy with what you've got, Slayer."

            For a minute it's like they are the only two people on earth.  It's easy to think this sometimes because they have to do it so often.  They know no one can stomach the idea of the two of them being together.  When they're alone they can turn off all the monitors on their personal life and just be who they are…two people in love.  But in the sight of others, more specifically, her friends, they have to be different people, evaluating their existence, looking at each other as outsiders would view them.  There are no such problems here this morning, though.  They have someone who condones their relationship in their midst and for a moment they have acceptance.  They kiss, not knowing how much time has elapsed until Dawn voices her annoyance.  There is a limit after all.

            "Um, guys!  Me---eating---here!  Not liking the saliva swapping right now,"  Dawn says, making a point to turn her head away in a dramatic flourish.

            Buffy slowly breaks away from Spike's kiss.  "MMM…sorry, Dawn.  Guess I must have gotten carried away for a minute."  There is still the phantom promise of another kiss on his lips and she looks into his eyes.  Wait…just wait…she tries to say.

            "Well, I gotta go anyway,"  Dawn says, rising from her chair and wiping her mouth.  "I'll give you guys an early start."

            "Early start?"  Buffy asks.

            Dawn rolls her eyes.  "Oh, come on.  Like I don't know what you guys do when I go off to school."

            Buffy and Spike feign innocence…terribly.  To the point that Dawn has more to say immediately.

            "OK, if I'm wrong then the flour bin is where you have suddenly decided to store your nightgown, Buffy."

            Buffy remembers the other day.  Dawn was out of the apartment.  Someone was running a hair dryer in the next room over.  The calendar announced some insignificant holiday in another country.   And Spike was inside of her, pounding away, right there on the kitchen table.  The same kitchen table where she is expected to eat this sweet concoction of flour, butter, eggs, and syrup, all with a smile, all while remembering the first time she saw her boyfriend.  And God, that was horrible.  She can still remember when her very life was an envisioned feast for him.  But somehow it occludes the fact that now her very life would be a famine without him.  She touches his face…

            "I'm off,"  Dawn says, slinging her backpack over her shoulder.  "Oh, and just remember.  School lets out early on Friday.  So if you guys are still going at it at 1:00 you might have an audience.  She takes another swig of her orange juice before departing the room, leaving them alone---alone---for the first time in sixteen hours.

            Buffy stares at Spike, watching him hike his countenance into a broad, sexy grin as the front door closes.  His hands are traveling down her backside, down the length of her brief nightshirt.  In seconds, his cold, bare hands are touching her flesh, drawing her closer.

            They have imposed a no-sex-while-Dawn-is-around order that they have followed to the letter.  They sleep together each night.  They hold each other, knowing that the morning will be coming soon.  It's hard, but that manage.  And sometimes Dawn does spend the night elsewhere and they have that time in the darkness together.  But in the clutch of morning, their passion is more real, more fought for.  It's as though mentally they're figuring out how long it will take Dawn to get from the threshold of the apartment to the elevator to the parking lot.

            "She's got some imagination,"  Buffy says as Spike's nostrils drizzle cool drafts on her neck as he bends to kiss her there.

            "Those energy blob types always do,"  he says, kissing her firmly under her chin.    

            "Like all we ever do is have sex while she's away,"  Buffy says, closing her eyes as Spike's hands make their way to the front of her nightshirt and his fingers begin tugging at her nipples.

            "Like that's all we ever do,"  Spike says, his mouth coming down on hers.

            Buffy moans.  "Can that be all we do for a while?"

            Spike chortles.  "Mmm…absolutely."

Spike is resting on the sofa when he hears someone inserting a key into the door.

            That'll be Little Bit, he thinks to himself as he looks at the clock.  It's a few minutes after three.  Poor kid.  If it weren't for me she'd be one of those latch key kids who always end up being profiled on _Rescue 911 for accidentally setting themselves on fire or falling through plate glass windows._

            Once the door is opened, he swings his legs over onto the floor, rising to greet her.  It's been a long, lonely afternoon and he smiles when he sees her.

            "Hey, Nibblet.  How was school?"

            She doesn't answer right away.  She sets her book bag down very carefully on the chair by the door and begins to look around, cautiously.  "Is Buffy here?"  she asks.

            "No, she went to go train about an hour ago.  Said she'd be back by five."

            Dawn exhales a long-held breath and presses a hand to her chest.

            "What kind of mood is she in today?"  Dawn asks.

            Spike smiles.  "She was in a good mood when she left."  Because we spent the morning in bed and she was awfully good to the little sizzler, so she got much in return, he continues in his head.  "Why?"

            "Let me get something to drink first and then I'll tell you,"  Dawn says, motioning for him to join her in the kitchen.

            She reaches into the fridge and extracts a cold Capri Sun for herself and the carton of butcher's blood for Spike.  As she's ramming the straw into the bag, she sighs and says, "I need you to help me with something."

            "Anything, love.  You know that."

            She smiles and leans her backside against the counter.  "Yeah, I know.  But this is going to take, like, all your powers of persuasion and then some."

            "Oh?  Consider my curiosity piqued, love.  What is it?"

            She sips a little at her drink before she continues.  "Well, you know how Buffy is dead set against me dating before I'm sixteen, right?"

            "Right,"  he says, taking a sip of his own drink.

            "Well…" her teeth graze lightly over her bottom lip.  "There's this guy at school and he's really cute.  I mean, like, way, way cute.  Like…like…"

            "Like the entire pantheon of TRL hotties combined cute?" he offers.

            "Yes, exactly!  That cute."

            Spike is beginning to piece this together.  Little Bit has a crush, he thinks to himself.  And it might not be an unrequited one…

            "So, there's this bloke and he's quite the spunk and …"  he says.

            "Well, I've had a thing for him for a while.  I mean, everyone does.  But I thought that he didn't even know who I was.  But today, when I was at my locker, he, like, came up and starting talking to me.  Just like that.  He asked me if I were in any classes with him and I said no, but I had seen him around.  And we just starting going on about school and stuff and what we did in our free time, which led to talking about movies we had seen and movies we would like to see and before I knew it…"  She takes a breath.  "He was asking me to the movies on Friday night."

            Spike's mouth flies open, though he did see this one coming.  "No!"

            "Yeah!"  she is blushing and seems to find it hard to look at him right in the face.  "I couldn't believe it either."

            "So what did you tell him?"

            "Well, I didn't want to sound like a total dork and say, 'I've got to ask my sister first,' so I just told him that I had to check my calendar."

            "Good one.  Makes you sound in demand.  That he might not be the only bantam in the barnyard.  Men thrive on that.  It's the competitive nature of the beast."

            "So anyway.  I need you to help me with the convincing Buffy thing, because you're good at that."

            "Well, that shouldn't be too difficult.  It's only taken me, what, a year to convince her that I was the right man for her."

            "Yeah, but she listens to you now.  Like the other night when you just had that feeling that she might need help on patrol and at first she was all, 'I'm the Slayer.  I can handle things by myself.'  And you said, 'You're also my girlfriend and if something happened to you, I couldn't bear it.'  And she said, 'This is my job.  And every time you help me with the slayings, the vamps in this town get all grumbly and put out hits on you.'  And then you said, 'I can handle the vamps in this town.  It's life without you I couldn't handle, love.'  And she started to protest again and you started kissing her and you, almost made out in front of me until she stopped you.   And then you went out and did the slaying together, which was good because you said there were demons and vamps out for blood that night."

            He remembers this night well.  She had gotten him so hot that when they got to the cemetery, they made love on top of a marble sarcophagus, the vampire slayer equivalent of shoving everything off an office desk and doing it with a co-worker.

            "So you think all she needs is some kissing to convince her, eh?"  Spike says, still immersed in the memory of the moonlight on Buffy's face as he rocked against her slowly in the aftermath of her climax.

            "Maybe a little more than that,"  Dawn says.  "You should definitely do that thing that makes her go 'eee eee eee.'"

            "Dawn!"  He remembers that old saying about little pitchers having big ears.  

            She smiles knowingly.  "Anyway, I'll go to the library tonight and give you guys a chance to, uh, talk.  OK?"

            "Never fear, Little Bit.  Consider it done."  He cocks his head.   "What's his name, anyway?"

            "Travis,"  she says in the obvious delight of just saying his name.

            Spike winces.  "Travis?  His name is Travis?"

            "Yeah.  Travis Singleton."

            "There are actually people out there who would name a kid Travis?  I'd do nothing of the sort and yet I'm chased with wooden stakes.  What horrible injustices there are in the world."

            "What's wrong with the name Travis?  I think it's a cool name."

            "It's a nancy boy name."

            "Nancy boy?  How do you get that?"

            "It just is."

            "Like Spike is all that great a name."

            "Spike is a great name.  And besides, my real name is William and there are kings and conquerors named William.  Travis is the name of flaming' country western singers and Scottish bands that aren't nearly as good as Radiohead."

            "I'm not dating him for his name, Spike!"

            "Let's hope not, Nibblet.  Else I'd be a might scared for you."

            "So you think you can do it?  The convincing and all?"

            "I'll give it a try.  That's all I can do.  But if she says no, that's the law.  And if she says yes…Well, Buffy and I would have to meet him first."

            It is over now.

            Buffy knows this because she has seen his face convulse into that near-demon visage several times.  He continues to rock against her.  This is his way.  His presence still looms large inside of her, even as the muscle diminishes in size, trembling out its last gasps of life between her shuddering walls.  He is trembling as well.  Sometimes when it is over, she has to hold him until he stops shaking.  She doesn't know why.  There is some doubt in him mind that this is not real.  Even as he feels his own skin on hers, even as he tastes himself on her lips, somehow the validity of what they're doing eludes him.  He wants to believe.  He wants to believe very badly.  And when he looks into her eyes when they have finished, there's always the lingering question: "Are you really here with me?"  She can stare back into those blue black eyes and assure him all she can, but she can't eradicate the question, or provide an adequate answer, it seems.

            "Hey, you,"  she says softly, threading her hand through his hair.  "You back?"

            "Yeah,"  he chokes out, his mouth curling into a satisfied smile as he makes the return to earth.

He pulls himself away at length and falls at her side, staring at the ceiling.  All the covers are on the floor.  Buffy imagines that if they were in a movie or in a TV show they'd be making an effort to cover themselves.  They remain bare, she, covered in a fine film of sweat, he in that veneer of incredulity he wears like a shroud.

            But when he looks over at her, she is smiling, quietly, to herself.  He has done something right.  She is drumming her forefinger and index fingers against her chest and humming something he can't discern.  At last, she grabs herself from her reverie and flings herself against his chest, latching onto one flat nipple with her swollen, ardent mouth before revisiting his lips.  She nestles her head on his shoulder, stroking her small hand across his chest, still humming that song.

            "You know what?,"  she asks, her hand moving down the rack of taut abs leading down to the nether regions she's seen and felt so much of this evening.

            "What?"  he asks, watching her hand's singular path.  Her finger is tracing the row of rough hairs under his navel.  

            "I think we should have started doing this sooner.  Because the way I see it, we spent four years fighting and we've just a couple of months fucking.  And the fucking is definitely better than the fighting."

            He laughs slightly, feeling new life course into his exhausted member as her fingers tease around his tousled, wiry hairs.  "Consider those four years foreplay," he says, suddenly remembering why he treated Buffy to pages 55-95 of the _Kama Sutra in one single session.  Not that it was an imposition or anything.   "This may be an awkward time to bring this up, but there's something you should know about Dawn."_

            She lifts her head curiously.  "What about her?"  her eyes widen.  "Is she in trouble again?  In school?  She had another fight and she's been suspended and she was only pretending to go to school today.  That's it, isn't it?"

            "No, no.  Nothing's wrong at school, so calm yourself.  It's not bad news at all.  It's very good news, actually.  For her.  You may not think so right away, though."

            "What the hell is it?"

            He regards her sympathetically.  There's so much turmoil in her eyes as she's thinking about the million and one things that Dawn could possibly have gotten herself into or will be getting herself into.  He reaches for her hair, smoothing back a stray hair that has stuck to the side of her perspiring face.

            "Has she talked to you about the boys at school?"

            "Yeah, I guess…"  A look of fear flickers across her face.  "Oh, she's fighting with boys?"

            "Not fighting with them, Slayer.  Wanting to date them."

            "Well, I know she wants to date, but she knows she can't before she's sixteen.  And that's not a Buffy rule.  That was a Mom rule."

            "She knows that.  But she's hoping that big sis might cut her a sliver of slack on this.  You see, this bloke is pretty special to her.  And don't worry.  From what she's told me, he's no baddie.  He's perfectly boringly suburban.  Wears Abercrombie and Fitch, has clean, white, non-pointy teeth, wears his hair in his eyes, which, when uncovered, are a soft hazel.  He moved to Sunnydale from Seattle last year after his father's company relocated him.  He plays lacrosse, is active on the debate team as well as something called Model UN, and he's planning on going to MIT when he graduates high school."  He finishes his description with a tight clench of his jaw.   "Guess the apple sometimes does have quite a ways to go when it falls from the tree."

            "She told you all that about him?"

            "Well, yeah.  I asked and she told."

            "Funny she hasn't said much to me about him."

            "Aw, sweetheart, she probably thought you'd get all suspicious if she started talking too much about him."  he says, kissing the top of her head.  "But there's something else you should know about him."

            "Oh, God, what?"

Spike sighs drearily.  "His name is,"  and he swallows hard before speaking.  "Ter-A-vis!"

"So?"

"So?  So!  Hmmph!  Perhaps I was wrong about that apple.  You both chose poof-sounding wankers to be your first loves."

She exhales a deep breath as she places her worried head on his chest.  "I am so not ready for this."

"Point is, Slayer, Dawn is ready,"  he says, stroking the back of her neck.  He sees Buffy extend her lip in a quasi pout and he can't love her more.  "Buffy, you know how on the soaps, sometimes the ankle biters out-stay their cuteness and are sent away to boarding school and come back fully grown and ready to either take over their fathers' companies or learn about their true paternity?"

"Yeah,"  she says dully.  

He kisses her on the top of her head.  "Dawn's back from boarding school.  And she's not a baby anymore."

"She's my baby sister, though,"  she whines in protest.

"Chin up, Slayer.  You know, you weren't that much older than Dawn when you picked Angel Poof to be your cherry poppin' daddy."

Her eyes fly open as she lifts her head.  Spike imagines that if she were a cat, every hair on her back would be raised.

"I am SOOOOOOO not ready for this!"

It is nearly eight o'clock when Dawn returns to the apartment.  All of her friends were there and they had gotten to talking about how impossible Mr. Lumford's class was, what happened on _Dawson's Creek the night before, and who they were thinking about taking to the homecoming dance in two weeks.  Dawn knew exactly who she wanted to go with and none of the girls were surprised by her response.  It would be their first high school dance.  This was a big deal.  Dawn wanted to buy a grown-up dress and not borrow one of Buffy's like she usually did for her junior high dances.  Besides, she was a lot taller than Buffy now, a fact that caused her ego-minded, slaying sister a lot of grief._

She sighs as she approaches the door.  "I'll always be little sis to her."

Buffy and Spike are in the kitchenette when Dawn arrives.  Spike has a cup towel draped over his shoulder and Buffy is sudsing up the dinner dishes.  She is swirling a brush around a black iron skillet when Dawn enters.  The lingering odor of fried potatoes and onions hangs in the air, something that would normally spur Dawn's appetite.  But she is not hungry tonight.  Her mind is too full of wonder and worry.  

"Hey, Nibblet,"  Spike says, catching her out of the corner of his eye as he swabs a glass.

"Hey,"  she returns warily, noticing that the pair are unnervingly quiet.

Buffy empties the black iron skillet and fills it with clean water, still scrubbing.  Her lips are pursed and she is fully engaged in getting the burnt on, stuck on mess off the bottom of the skillet.

Finally, she says, "You're late."

"I know.  And I'm sorry.  I had a lot of studying to do, I guess."

Buffy says nothing.  The skillet is finally divested of its clinging mess and she hands it over to Spike.

"There's a plate on the stove for you,"  Spike says.

Dawn goes over to the stove and lifts the foil from the plate.  Hamburger, home fries, and a thick slice of tomato.  She quickly replaces the foil and goes over to the fridge for a Capri Sun.

Once the last dish is dry, Spike wipes his hands.  "I'm going out for a smoke, love."

Buffy nods acknowledgement, moving a sponge around the sink.

Before departing, Dawn tries to engage his eyes.  She wants to know…But Spike has nothing to offer her except for a slow, sympathetic smile.  He turns and heads for the door, grabbing his duster before leaving the apartment.

Now the sisters are alone.  Dawn continues to watch her sister ignore her.  _Now she's mad at me.  I might as well tell Travis tomorrow that I can't go.  I'll have to be cool about it though.  I'll have to say, something like, what Marcia Brady told Doug Simpson.  Something suddenly came up…_

Dawn sits uneasily at the kitchen table, crushing the cool Capri Sun nervously, sending too much drink through the straw.  She swallows slowly in two audible gulps, nearly choking on the last one.

Buffy switches off the light over the sink.  She is drying her hands on the same cup towel Spike used minutes ago.  She notices the plate is still on the stove.

"That's going to get cold, you know."

"I'm not in a hamburger mood tonight."

"Suit yourself.  But there's no money for Domino's in the budget, so that's all there is."

Dawn nods.  "I'm not hungry anyway."

Buffy clicks her tongue and walks towards the door.  Before she leaves, she hangs back slightly, holding onto the frame.  She turns her head, not enough to look at Dawn, but to make herself heard.  

"You have any plans after school tomorrow?"  she asks.

_Aside from trying to salvage what's left of my social life after I tell Travis I can't go to the movie with him on Friday?  "Not really,"  she says.  "Why?"_

"I thought we'd go to the mall.  Do a little shopping."  Buffy finally swivels around to look at her sister.  A smile spreads over her face, a pleasing one.  An I'm-not-mad-at-you,-Dawn-type smile.  "If you're going on a date on Friday, you'll probably want something new to wear."

Dawn springs immediately from her chair, squeezing the Capri Sun until the juice spurts from the straw.  "Oh, my God…you mean, I can go?"

"Yeah, you can go,"  she says, her eyes shining in the dim.

"Oh, Buffy!"  

The boisterous teenager's hug of gratitude nearly knocks Buffy over.  "Hey!  Watch the slaying arm!  My non-paying night job may not put food on the table, but it keeps the people of Sunnydale from becoming food on a vampire's table."

"You mean, I can really go?"

"Yes, Dawn.  I just told you you could.  But it can't be a car date."

Dawn rolls her eyes.  "D'uh!  He's fifteen.  So unless he's going to drive up in a bumper car, I think it'll be more of a walking thing."

"Dawn, you know I don't like you walking after dark.  Spike can drive you to the theater."

"Cool!  The DeSoto!"

Buffy can tell that in her mind she's already on that date, so she feels a need to add a disqualifier.  "But Dawn.  Before you go out with this guy, Spike and I would like to meet him first."

Dawn smiles at the familiarity of Buffy's words.  _Damn.  I have the__ coolest "parents"._

When Spike returns from his smoke break, Dawn draws him aside and out of earshot of Buffy.  Conspiratorially, they hover by the door.

"Eee…eee…eee?"  she asks with a broad grin on her face.

Spike knows immediately what she is talking about.  He is suddenly glad that he has lost the ability to blush.  "I should really look into getting a patent for that."


	2. Chapter Two

The whole apartment reeks of femininity. 

            It's 6:30 on Friday and Buffy and Dawn have been behind closed doors preparing for her date for nearly an hour.  Spike has been excluded from this right of passage, gladly, alternately flipping through the channels and sipping at a warm mug of butcher's blood.  He hears the girls tittering in twin Geisha girl conspiracy as perfumes are sampled and dismissed, choice of wardrobe is discussed and criticized and shoes are tried on for comfort, style and clunkiness.  He still isn't too clear about what all the fuss is about.  All this for some young buck named Travis who momentarily will walk through the door and whisk Dawn off for her first non-chaperoned night with a member of the opposite sex.

            The doorbell rings.  He hears Dawn's squeal, "He's here!  Oh, God, he's here!  And I can't stop running my tights!"

            Buffy's head emerges from the bedroom door.  "Spike, could you stall him?  We're having tights issues in here."

            "Will do, love.  I was in the mood for an after dinner aperitif,"  he says lazily, gathering himself off the sofa.

            His remark is met with a warning glare.

            "Kidding!  Teenagers give me horrible indigestion.  It's all the sports drinks and garlicky pizza they eat.  And besides, his neck is for the Nibblet to nibble on, not the bloody chaperone."

            Buffy slams the door.  He hears Dawn query, "You don't think he'd really…?"

            "He's just messing with us like he always does, Dawnie.  Don't pay any attention to him.  It'll only encourage him."

            Spike smiles as he swaggers over to the door.  The doorbell rings once more before he can answer.  "Eager little bugger, idn't he?"  Spike mutters.

            And when he opens the door, suddenly he understands why this is a big deal.

            There he stands, a hair short of being six feet, embracing his budding masculinity with a splash of Polo and a rash of red bumps running down his long, thin neck, signaling that some kind of shaving had been attempted that evening.  His hair, just as Dawn said, tickles his incongruously long lashes.  His shirt fits across his chest very well and Spike can define his muscular, sporty build and envy gouges Spike's thoughts.  His belted khakis hang right at his waist and almost appear to have been tailored.  On his feet are a pair of sensible loafers that look new.  He stands quite still in his awkwardness and when he finally speaks, his voice is strongly, decidedly male with just a hint of a boyish squeak.

            "I'm sorry, I think I have the wrong apartment.  I'm looking for Dawn Summers."

            Spike continues to stare.  He has been staring for a while.  When he tries to speak, there is a boyish squeak in his voice.  "Yeah.  You've got the right place."

            "Good.  For a minute there I was worried."  He extends his hand.  "I'm Travis Singleton."

            Spike takes his hand and gives it one good pump before releasing it, continuing to stare.

            "And…you are?"  the boy asks.

            "Oh.  Sorry.  I'm Spike."

            "Oh, I've heard Dawn talk about you.  You're Buffy's boyfriend, right?"

            "Right,"  he says.

            Travis rocks on his heels.  "Can I come in?"

            "Oh, yeah.  Come in.  The girls are just finishing up their preening.  They'll be out in a bit."

            The young man enters the apartment, looking around shyly, secretly gathering opinions about the decorations.  His eyes scale the walls, momentarily snared by the Aztec sun that beams over the mantle.  He then looks at the arrangement of photographs on the in table by the sofa.  Buffy's mother smiles brightly over vacation snaps of her two daughters.  Buffy and Dawn at Fisherman's Warf, Buffy and Dawn in Death Valley, Buffy and Dawn at Sea World.  And then one not of the two girls, but of just the older one, being held close by the strangely silent, pale man in black who continues to bore holes into him as he walks about.

            "You, uh, you live here?"  Travis asks.

            "Yeah."

            "I've never been to these apartments before.  They're kind of…small,"  he says, bordering on being smug.

            "Room enough for the Little Bi—I mean, Dawn, Buffy and myself."

            Travis nods.  "My parents bought this huge house over on Summit.  It's a fixer upper and they've been tearing it up since we moved it.  I was still living out of boxes up until, like, two months ago."

            Spike has nothing to say to this.  He supposes he could say something like, "Well, two months ago I was living in a rather stylish crypt in the cemetery and I slept on a concrete slab.  But the Slayer took me away from all that."

            "It's really cool, though.  Really old.  Really…old and big,"  Travis continues.

            Spike nods.  "You may as well have a seat.  The girls may be a while."

            Travis sits on the sofa, exhaling a frustrated breath and picking off lint from his pressed chinos.  Spike sits opposite him, slinging his leg over his knee, fixing the young suitor with a probing gaze.  Travis smiles nervously, averting his eyes, sweeping the hair out of his face, only to have it fall back to where it was before.

            "That's a nice rug,"  Travis says.

            Spike thinks at first the young man is making a crack about his hair, but then he sees that he's pointing at the floor.  "Used to be at Buffy's old house."

            "Dawn told me she used to live on Revello Drive.  My parents almost bought a house there.  We could have been neighbors."

            "How sweet,"  Spike demurs.  

            "My parents say the Real Estate values in this town are off the hook.  They couldn't believe they were able to close on a house that big for less than 1 mil."

            "I'm sure I wouldn't know."  _The rent at the crypt was free.  You live cheap when your roommate is a decomposed corpse._

            Finally the door at the end of the hall opens.  Buffy struts out first, almost tiptoeing, popping her curiosity-laden face into the room.

            Travis raises himself quickly, looking relieved that someone else has joined the room.

            "Hi.  Travis?  I'm Buffy,"  she says with a smile lighting her face as she takes his hand.

            "Nice to meet you.  Dawn's told me a lot about you."

            "Oh, so you already know I'm a controlling wench who can't cook and hates housekeeping."

            "Nah.  Nothing like that."

            "Ah.  I see Dawn's hair isn't the only brown thing about her,"  Buffy says gleefully as she plops herself on the arm of Spike's chair.  "So, have you guys been getting to know each other?"  she says, wrapping her arms around Spike and pulling him close, noting that he seems unusually stiff.

            "Yeah,"  Travis says, swallowing hard.

            _He's an all right kid, Buffy.  Did you know he lives in a really big house?  Spike wants to say._

            The door at the end of the hall opens again.  All eyes turn as Dawn makes her way slowly into the room, wearing a pair of dark denim hipsters, a pink, navel-baring tee-shirt with rhinestone studs spelling out "Cutie."  Her glossy hair shines in the light.  Her face is aglow as well, sparkling with a dash of glittery make-up.  Her lips are painted pink.  It's the first time Spike has seen her wear lip-gloss.

            The reviews are in.  Dawn's suitor is pleased.  His face breaks out into an idiotic smile.  "Wow.  You look great."

            "Thanks,"  she says, in a voice that sounds different from her usual girlish gab.

            She takes her place on the love seat and Travis sits down beside her as well, still staring her up and down with that awe-struck look on his partially fringe-hidden face.

            "So, Travis.  Dawn's been kind of sketchy about you.  She told me you just moved her a little while ago."

            "Yeah, my Dad got transferred.  He's a chemist for Roache Industries."

            "Cool!"  Buffy enthuses.

            "Right now he's working on a new drug that's supposed to combat white blood cell destruction in cancer patients.  If the FDA approves it, it could save a lot of lives."

            "That is so neat!  Wow, to be in on something like that.  That is really amazing."

            Spike has completely withdrawn from the conversation.  He sits, still staring ahead, his jaw set, his hand perched on his knee.  Buffy is sitting upright now on the arm of the chair, bubbling over with enthusiasm for new cancer drugs, new Sunnydalites, new presence of manhood in the apartment.  Spike can't take his eyes off the pair on the sofa.  

            _Tonight this young man is going to whisk Dawn off into the night and take her to a darkened cinema.  Well, he really won't be whisking her off.  I'll be their chauffeur.  But when I drop them off, they'll go, hand-in-sweaty-palmed-hand, off into the night.  They'll wait for their tickets, go inside, walk through the maze of different screening rooms until they find the one showing the latest teen hormone fest.  They'll sit down, maybe have a bucket of popcorn between them that they'll nibble at while shyly passing glances at each other in the dark.  The conversation will be light, giggly…all about school and Friends__ and…bleedin' Carson Daly.  The house lights will go down.  The screen will brighten with the light of the rear projector.  The opening credits will roll.  "Freddie Prinze, Jr. and Jennifer Love Hewitt in… Hooter Summer.__   They'll laugh together at the insipid breast jokes.  The Nibblet will swoon every time __Freddie tells Jennifer that she has beautiful eyes.  Things will get a tad awkward when Freddie goes to second base with Jennifer in the front seat of his Daddy's Buick Century.  The Nibblet will find her gentleman caller's arm wrapped tight round her shoulder.  She'll act as though she doesn't notice, but before long she can't help but notice because he'll be groping her with that eager, adolescent hand that acts on hormone responses only.  He'll have his hand on that tight, pink tee shirt, fingering the rhinestones, tracing the line of her bra, trying to find her precious pink little nipple…_

Spike hears an unmistakable growl.  It's coming from…him!

Panic ensues when he realizes his tongue is presently being impaled by a rapidly growing incisor.

Oh, God…I'm vamping out!  Quick!  Gotta stop it…somehow…think!  Think of…Buffy.  Buffy's arm, Buffy's hair, Buffy's sweet smile, Buffy's nose, Buffy's ears, Buffy's mouth, Buffy's tongue, Buffy's tongue as it dives into my mouth one more time.  Buffy's legs…Buffy's legs as the drape over my shoulders while I'm poundin' into her on the kitchen table.  Buffy's hot, wet, center that burns around me as I continue to thrust.  Buffy's breasts bouncing up and down in front of me…Oh, God.  Now I'm not only vamping out, I'm horny as hell.

Buffy is laughing at something as she lightly touches Spike on the shoulder.  All at once, at the feel of her hand, the incisor turns blunt and the emergency is over.

"The same thing happened to us not too long ago.  Remember, Spike?"  Buffy asks a clueless Spike.

"What, now?"  he asks.

"At the Bronze, remember?  That thing with the thing?  And the girl?"

"Come again?"

Buffy eyes him curiously and leans into him.  In a whisper she says, "Are you OK?"

"No.  Just keep touching me and I'll be all right, I think."

Buffy draws her head back as though trying to observe him from a distance to see what is really going on.

"Keep touching me!  Keep touching me!"  he urges through gritted teeth.

Buffy obliges, alternately stroking his shoulder and patting his back.

            Travis looks at his watch.  "We'd better get going if we're going to catch the movie."

            "Yeah, we should,"  Dawn concurs.  

            "All right, well I think Spike's car is just out front,"  Buffy says.  "Spike will drop you off—

            "You're coming too, aren't you?"  Spike says, grabbing her hand.

            The desperation in Spike's grasp takes Buffy completely off guard.  "Yeah.  If you want."

            "I want.  Believe me.  And so do you."

Buffy raises an eyebrow, now truly perplexed at her boyfriend's skittish behavior.  But she says nothing.

"You're going to love the DeSoto.  It's way old and so cool,"  Dawn enthuses to her date.

            "You drive a DeSoto?"  Travis asks Spike.

            Spike, afraid to open his mouth in fear that another growl will escape, nods his head rapidly.

            "Cool!  Do you collect old cars or something?"

            Spike shakes his head and holds up his index finger to indicate "one."

            "Ooookay,"  Travis says warily.

             After the young couple leaves the apartment, Buffy draws Spike aside.

            "What's going on?"

            "I'll tell you later,"  she says, making sure that his hand is secure in hers.

The rumbling DeSoto pulls up to the curb of the cinema just as a rather serpentine line is forming outside the box office.

            "Looks like we got here just in time,"  Dawn says.

            "Yeah, you guys better claim your place in line,"  Buffy says.

            "Bye, Buffy,"  Dawn says, leaning over the front seat to whisper in her sister's ear, "Don't worry about me.  I'll be fine."

            "I know,"  Buffy says.  "What time should we be back?  About ten-ish?"

            Dawn and Travis mentally quiz each other before both agreeing on 10:15.

As soon as the eager pair leaves the car, Buffy turns to Spike. "_Now_ would you mind telling me what's going on?"

            He exhales a long-held burst of unneeded breath.  "I wish I knew.  I was sitting there in our apartment and all the sudden I thought I was going to show everyone what makes Spike just a tad different from all the other blokes about town."

            "You were going to vamp?"

            "I thought I was.  I don't know why.  I just started thinking of Dawn being alone with this…living statue to maturing male sexuality and I…I don't know…"

            "Aw, honey.   It's that protective instinct of yours.  You can turn it off tonight.  Travis is a gentleman.  I can tell."

            "Begging your pardon, Slayer, but  historically, you haven't had the keenest sense when it comes to sorting out the gits from the gents."

            "OK, what is it about him that you don't like?"

            "He's arrogant, for one.  Materialistic.  A bit too muscular.  And you can tell he spends far too much time on his hair."

            Buffy breaks into a raucous laugh.  "You could be describing yourself there, bleach boy,"  she says,  driving her finger into his rock-hard stomach.  "Maybe that's why she likes him.  Could be he reminds her a little of you."

            "Gaaaaa!  Buffy!  Had I still a gag reflex, I'd be steam cleanin' blood out of the upholstery in here for weeks."

            Spike shifts gears and pulls the car away from the curb.  As the car merges into traffic, he turns his head to peer out Buffy's open window to see Dawn and Travis standing in line, chatting it up, laughing excitedly.  Once he can't see them anymore, he stares straight ahead, pensively.  He reaches into his pockets, fumbling for his cigarettes.  They are not in the front pockets, or in the interior ones either.

            "You left them at the apartment,"  Buffy says.

            "Oh, bugger all!"  he mutters.

            He begins rubbing the nail of his thumb with the tip of his index finger.  He clears his throat a few times and runs his hands through his hair, fidgeting like a two year old in a stroller.  As he continues to drive, barely a word is said between them until they are just about to begin their approach to Sunnydale Heights.

"I'm more OK with this than I thought I would be,"  Buffy says finally.

            "I'm not,"  Spike says darkly.

            That's all too obvious.   

            "If anything, I'm a little jealous."

            "Hmmph!  "So jailbait-in-loafers lights your fire as well, eh?"

            "No!  What I meant was, Dawn's doing something I rarely do these days.  We've been together now for almost three months and you've never taken me out on an anything that even resembles a date."

            "I tried to take you out on a date once, but you didn't like the little Vamp and Jiffy-pop show goin' on at the warehouses."

            "That wasn't a date!  That was you being desperate.  I'm talking about a real date where the two of us actually pick an evening, go have a nice dinner, maybe do a little dancing, go see a movie or something.  Something romantic that doesn't have Jackie Chan or Jim Carrey in it."  She moves a little closer to him.  "And then, on the way home, you could take a different route.  Maybe to the outskirts of town.  You can stop the car someplace secluded, maybe a cliff overlooking the city or something."  She traces the outside of his ear with her finger, initiating a little chill down his spine which she can see.  "And then, you'll turn to me and slyly say, 'We're out of petrol.'  And I'll know you're lying the Big Bad dog you are, but I'll take it all in stride."  She latches onto his earlobe briefly with just the slightest touch of her lips.  "And then we'll find ourselves alone in the backseat, covered in the moonlight from the open windows.  But that'll be the only thing covering us."

            Spike pulls the car over to the side of the road, easing into a parking space between a large pickup truck and a Volkswagen Beetle.  He lets the engine idle for a few minutes before shutting it off.  In the quiet of the night, a dog barks somewhere, a clutch of throaty crickets sing a chorus of mordant tunes, and a police car sounds its high, piercing wail off in the distance.  Spike continues to stare ahead, drumming his hands on the steering wheel as though waiting for an imaginary green light to come on overhead.

            "What are you thinking?"  she asks, huskily.  

            He twitches his mouth to one side.  "I'm thinking that we've got about an hour and a half, maybe two hours until the picture lets out.  So the dinner and dancing bit is probably out of the question tonight.  We could turn 'round and go see a picture ourselves, but that would make us late meeting the Nibblet and the Travesty.  So, it looks like that last bit you talked about is the only thing that fits in our schedule."  He turns to her and smiles.

            "So what are you saying?"

            "I'm saying we're out of petrol, pet.  Better make the best of it."

            The Desoto is once again tearing down Sunnydale's main drag, heading for the cinema.  Buffy is breathlessly rearranging her clothes and checking her face in the rearview mirror, hoping the darkness will obscure the flush on her cheeks.

            "Oh, God, my hair's a mess and my panties are soaking wet,"  she says disdainfully.  

            "Uh huh,"  Spike says, his hand creeping over to her thighs.

            She slaps his hand away.  "Keep your hands on the wheel, Spike."

            "Sorry.  Can't get enough of that Niagara Falls that is you in full arousal, Slayer."  

            "Uh, Spike?"

            "Yes, love?"

            "Was I wearing a bra?"

            "Yeah.  Maddeningly so."

            "Well, I'm not now."  She looks around in the front seat, feeling around on the floor.  Finally, she flips down the sun visor.  "What did you do with it?"

            "I can't remember.  It took me so long to unsnap it.  I don't like those Angel bras from Victoria's secret.  And not for reasons obvious to both of us."

            She turns and flings her body over the back of the seat, peering around in the darkness for any evidence of white lace.  Finding her rump so close to his head, Spike can't resist giving it a little pat.

            "Spike, this is serious!  What did you do with it?"

            "I told you I can't remember!  Maybe I threw it out the bloody window."

            Buffy settles back into her seat, trying to calm down.  "OK.  It's all right.  It's probably on Elm Street, lying in a puddle of water or something."

            "Mmm…puddle,"  he says, reaching between her thighs again.

            "You're hopeless,"  she says with a smile, taking his hand in hers.

            "Always."

            She leans close to him, snagging him between her arms, drawing him to her as he continues to drive.  "And amazing."  She kisses the side of his face so that he can keep his eyes on the road.  "Promise me something?"

            "Anything."

"Promise me that it'll always be this good.  Even when I'm eighty-five and you're pushing 250."

"Ooh, what a sexy granny you'll be, pet.  You'll be my little gray panther,"  he says, putting his arm around her as she snuggles against him.

            The cinema is now in sight.  As the Desoto pulls up to the curb, Dawn and Travis are waiting.  Dawn points to her wrist with a peeved look on her face.

            "God, Buffy.  We've been waiting here for, like, ten hours."

            "Sorry, Dawnie.  Spike and I were, um, were um…"  

            "Watching a documentary about unique American attractions in the West.  Giant balls of string, the world's oldest general store, those big replicas of Pecos Bill and his blue ball—er, bull."  Buffy pinches the underside of his arm.  "Bull.  I said bull, dammit!"

            "Uh huh,"  Dawn says knowingly, crossing her arms.  She whispers something inaudible to the passengers in the front seat and she giggles with Travis in short tweets.  

            _They know, Buffy thinks wearily._

            She decides to change the subject.  "So, em, how was the movie?  Two thumbs up?"

            "Sucked,"  Dawn says.  "So we just kept a count of the number of times Keanu Reeves said, 'whoa' and that made it kinda bearable."

            "The soundtrack was good, though.  Lots of Tool and Limp Bizkit,"  Travis says.

            _He even listens to wanker music,  Spike glowers as he stares ahead._

            The DeSoto makes its way to the west side of town where the houses suddenly become large, lurching and gated.   Travis indicates that his house is the third one on the left.  He was not lying.  His house is huge.  Lights beam from every window.  In the front room a halogen lamp glows against a stark white wall and a woman in a kerchief studies a wallpaper sample.

            "Well, here it is,"  Travis says.  "Home sweet home."

            "Beautiful place, Travis,"  Buffy says admiringly.

            "It will be.  Needs a coat of paint and some furniture, but it's nice."

            "And big,"  Spike says softly, smiling in self-satisfaction.

            "Well, good night, Dawn,"  he says, touching her hand.  "I had a nice time."

            "I did too, Travis.  See you at the library on Sunday night?"

            "Yeah.  Mid-terms are coming."

"Whether we're ready or not,"  Dawn says, beaming.

            "Nice meeting you.  Buffy.  Spike,"  he nods to the pair in the front seat.

            "Oh, nice meeting you too, Travis.  You take care."

            Dawn watches her date amble up the sidewalk to his house.  All of a sudden she squeals, "Oh, my God!  Travis must have stepped on a piece of toilet paper or something.  He's dragging something white on his foot!"

            A sudden fear grips Buffy.  And she knows instantly what it is.  She slowly turns to see Travis making his way to his house with one of her unmentionables attached to the cuff of his chinos.  Right as she's about to say something, the bra disentangles itself and is left on the sidewalk to be found by the sanitation department in the morning.


	3. Chapter Three

On Sunday night, Dawn wipes her mouth after finishing something interesting Buffy has made from leftover Chinese take-out and fish sticks.

            "Well, gotta go,"  she says cheerily.  "I've got five chapters of American history, a Joseph Conrad short story and a geometry theorem all waiting for me in my backpack."

            "Not to mention a certain fifteen year-old named Travis,"  Buffy says, taking her plate over to the sink.

            "Yeah, him too,"  she blushes.  

            Spike has been immobilized by nausea throughout the dinner, watching the two sisters chow down on what looks like something that could have very well come from a dumpster behind a diner.  Sometimes he is so glad he doesn't have to eat.  He doesn't have to pretend that Buffy is a gourmet cook and say things like, "Honey, this is great!  Demon lover in the sack, demon fighter in the graveyard, demon cook in the kitchen.  You're one well-rounded woman, Slayer."  He takes a grateful sip of his butcher's blood.

            "You need a ride?"  Spike offers.

            "No.  It's still kinda light outside.  I can manage by myself, I think."

            "All right.  But at least let me come and get you."

            Buffy is momentarily amused by this.  _The vampire wants to come and get the Slayer's sister.  Ha!_

            "OK, but I don't know how long I'll be."

            "Just give me a ring when you're ready, then, Bit."

            Dawn smiles over at him warmly.  "I will."

            Once she is gone, Spike sidles up to Buffy who has turned on the garbage disposal to get rid of the evidence that she'll never be mistaken for a Cordon Bleu chef.  She is mashing down a stubborn fish stick when Spike takes her in his arms.  When she shuts off the disposal, he whispers into her ear, "I know a little place not too far from here where we could go and be very, very naughty.  You interested?"

            "Can't,"  she sighs.  "I told Will I'd come over and help her move her armoire.  Well, actually move it for her, probably."

            "Move her armoire?  Is that Scooby code for something?" he says incredulously.

            "Nah.  She's rearranging her apartment.  She and Tara bought a new living room set."

            "You have got to be kidding."

            "Sounds lame, I know.  But they are my friends."

            "They're witches.  Why don't they just do a spell and let the furniture move itself?"

            "Because then they wouldn't have that quality Buffy time they've been missing lately.  You can come too, if you want."

            "No thank you, pet.  If I want to spend an evening with two lesbians, I'll watch Cinemax after hours."

            Just about an hour after the female contingent of the apartment has left, Spike hears someone unlocking the door.  He mutes the sound on the TV and cocks his head towards the door.  

            "Buffy?"  he says cautiously.

            Presently, Dawn enters the apartment very slowly, shutting the door tightly.

            "Oh, it's the other white meat,"  he says.  "I didn't expect you back so soon.  Why didn't you phone me?"

            Dawn is leaning against the back of the door.  Spike isn't exactly sure, but in the dim light he thinks he can discern a thin veil of tears over her eyes.

            Instantly he springs from the sofa.  "Dawn, are you all right?  What's wrong?"

            There are definite tears.  As he walks over to her he can see them glazing her cheeks now.  Pain pierces his heart.  

            "Oh, Sweet Bit.  Honey, tell me.  Did something happen at the library?"

            Dawn has not looked at him until now.  And when she does, he sees nothing but cold, bitter hatred being aimed his way.  He takes a step back.

            "Stay away from me, Spike,"  she spits out as tears moisten her mouth.

            Though he knows better, he reaches for her.  "Bit…"

            "Don't!"  she says, flashing a warning glare.  "You are not my brother.  You're not my father.  You're nothing to me.  You're just the guy who fucks my sister."

            She breezes past him, heading straight for her room.  The next sound he hears is her door slamming shut and with it, the sound of his own heart breaking in two.

            "She said that to you?"  Buffy asks incredulously a few hours later.

            Spike is outside the apartment building, smoking his tenth cigarette of the evening.  "That's what she said, all right,"  he says, exhaling a stream of gray smoke into the darkness.

            "Well, what did you say to her?"

            "Here.  I'll try it on you.  See if I get the same reaction."  He stamps out his cigarette and stands straight, clearing his throat before saying, "'I didn't expect you back so soon.  Why didn't you phone me?'"  He jerks his chin to one side.  "Anything offend you about that?"

            "No.  Something must have happened at the library,"  she deducts.

            "Ya think?"

            "And if my sister/Slayer senses are on target, I'd say whatever happened involves a certain teen-aged boy."  She touches his arm.  "Don't worry.  I'll sniff this thing out."

            "Well, until you do, I'm going back to the crypt for a while.  I was just waiting 'til you got back to tell you."

            "You're going back to the crypt?"

            He shakes his head.  "Can't stand to have the Nibblet angry with me.  You know, Buffy, even when I was evil she never looked at me like she did tonight."

            She sees the ragged hurt in his eyes as he aims his stare at the ground and for a moment, she can't believe she ever thought he wasn't capable of having any feelings.  She cradles his cold cheek in her hand.  "It's going to be all right, Spike.  OK?  I'll talk to her.  Get everything out in the open.  Don't worry."

            He catches her hand in his and closes his eyes as the warmth of her touch invades his skin.  He opens his eyes and a wry smile spreads across his face.  "Gotta give you Summers girls some credit.  You know how to hurt a fellow.  I just hope this Travis bloke got worse."

            The apartment is dark and the TV is still on, but no one is watching.  Buffy strides to the end of the hall to Dawn's room and knocks on the door.

            "Dawnie?"

            "Go away!" comes the immediate reply.

            "No, I'm not going away.  Let me in."

            "Just leave me alone!"

            "Let me in, or I'm breaking the door down."

            "Ooh!  My tough sister is going to break door—" and at that moment, the door flies open, Buffy's foot still extended in a kick as Dawn observes her from her bed.  "—down,"  she finishes.

            Buffy enters the room, arms akimbo.  "What the hell is going on?"

            Dawn returns her head to her pillow.  "It's none of your business."

            "Yes, it is my business!  Look, the two people I love most in the world aren't speaking to each other and I want to know why."

            "I don't want to talk about it."

            "Well, I'm sorry.  You have to.  Now talk or your autographed picture of Lance Bass is going in the trash."

            "I don't care.  Even if I do tell you what happened, you'll just take his side."

            "Oh, yeah?  Try me!"

            Dawn turns and lies on her back, staring at the ceiling.  A fresh set of tears course down her face.  "Why does he have to live here?"

            "What kind of question is that?"

            "I mean, are you so horny for him all the time that you can't drag your lazy ass to the cemetery when you want to get laid?"

            Buffy's mouth flies open as she says to herself, _This cannot be my sister talking.  It can't be…"Dawn Summers!  Whatever it is that's bothering you, you don't have to be insulting."_

            "I'm serious!  Why does he have to live here?"

            "Because I love him, OK?"

            "You loved Angel.  And Riley.  You didn't ask them to be all Jack Tripper on us."

            "Dawn, I don't have to justify why he's here to you or to anyone else.  He lives with us.  We're a family.  We take care of each other.  If I thought for one second that Spike would not lay his life down for either one of us, he'd be outta here.  He loves us, Dawn.  Both of us.  Do I have to remind you of how he allowed Glory to torture him for hours rather than tell her where to find you?  She almost killed him."

            "That wasn't for me.  It was for you,"  she says through a grating of gritted teeth.

            "That's shit and you know it!"  Buffy says, not afraid to use curse words now since Dawn seems to know them all.  "You know what we talk about most when we're together?  You!  All the time!  And I'm not the one bringing up Dawn as the hot topic.  It's always Spike saying, 'Dawn said the funniest thing today…Little Bit certainly is growing…the Nibblet and I watched the best episode of _The West Wing…"  Buffy approaches Dawn's bed, smoothing a hand over her shoulder.  He talks about you with a father's pride.  He adores you.  Everything about you.  You know that."_

            Dawn sniffs.  "I wish he didn't love me as much as he does sometimes."

            "That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard!  Would you rather have him hating you and threatening you all the time?  Believe me.  I've been on the receiving end of that.  Not a good place to be."

            "At least then he wouldn't be thinking about snacking on my dates."

            "Excuse me?"  _Oh, the near vamp-out, Buffy realizes.  Had he seen?  Apparently._

            Dawn wipes her face with her shirtsleeve.  "Travis was at the library tonight."

            "Yeah.  Kinda figured that.  What happened?"

            "I overheard him talking about our date…and Spike."

            "What about Spike?"  Oh, God.  He _did see him do that thing with the eyes and the fangs.  Now how is she going to explain this to worried members of the PTA?_

            "When I came in on the conversation, he was all, 'Yeah, we had a good time and Dawn's great' and I was thinking, 'Go team me!'  But then he started talking about 'the creepy assed guy who lives with her.'  Now who might that be?"

            "Did he say anything else?"

            "Oh, he said a lot.  He talked about how Spike was sizing him up when he walked into the apartment like—and these are his words, not mine---like he was thinking about dating him himself.  And then he talked about how when we were all sitting there together, how Spike was looking at him like he wanted to _eat him.  And then he heard Spike's stomach growl."_

            "Dawn, please tell me,"  she says haltingly, afraid of what she's going to hear next.  "At any point was the 'V' word mentioned?"

            Dawn rolls over onto her stomach, burying her face in her pillow.  "Yes," comes the muffled reply.

            "How?"  Buffy asks, her heart beating audibly.

            Dawn lifts her head.   "Travis was describing him and Eric Daniels said, 'Oh, I think I know that guy.  He used to hang out at the arcade and threaten everyone for their quarters, saying he was a vampire and he'd kill them if they didn't give him money.  Did Spike really do that?"

            Buffy wouldn't put it past him.  In the early days of his chip-controlled existence, he would do just about anything for cheap thrills.  She remembers hearing Anya talking about a time in which Spike scared her, made her squeal, and then asked her for money.  Buffy doesn't share this information with Dawn, though.

            "I don't know.  He could've…"  Buffy says quietly.  

            "At any rate, Travis doesn't want to see me again.  He says I'm not worth being a vampire's special of the day."

            "Oh, God!  Travis really thinks Spike is a vampire?"

            "Yeah.  Well he is, isn't he?  Breaking news, Buffy.  The guy you're sleeping with is dead and lives off blood."  Dawn shakes her head.  "You always say you love him for who he is.  And what he is is a vampire.  You know that.  The Scoobies know that.  Now the kids at school know it too.  The word is out.  The boyfriend of Buffy Anne Summers is a living-- make that undead-- Halloween costume the 365's of the year."

            Buffy always knew her relationship with Spike would be fraught with conflict, mostly internalized.  She was foolish to think that after such a long time their _Bewitched lives wouldn't be intruded upon by at least one braying Gladys Kravitz.  Now how to repair?  There wasn't much to do, except drag Spike out in the broad daylight and say, "See!  He's not a vampire.  He'd be dust right now—oh, he is.  Scratch that."_

            A thought occurs to Buffy.  "But did Spike ever actually fang up for anywhere there?  Did anyone ever actually see him vamp?  Ever?"

            "No.  It was the suggestiony thing, I think.  You know, even without the vamptitude, Spike can be pretty tough."

            _Yeah, like when he almost cried tonight because he was afraid you'd never speak to him again._

_            "Dawnie, what you have to remember is Spike didn't mean to sabotage your date, I'm sure.  Whatever he was feeling and however he reacted…I'm sure it was all out of his love for you and his need to protect you.  He's been the main man in your life for a long time and I think he was more than a little scared that he was being replaced.  You do care about Spike, don't you?"_

            There is a long pause from the younger Summers girl before she speaks.  "Yeah.  That's why it hurts so much.  But I guess this is how it's going to be.  If I'm going to like Spike, then I can pretty much forget about anyone else liking me."  Dawn sits up on the bed and crosses her legs, reaching over for a Kleenex on her bedside table.  "Is he coming back tonight?"

            "I don't know.  I'm sure he'd like to talk to you about this."

            "I'm not ready to face him yet,"  she says, blotting her nose gently.  "Can I go to Amelia's?"

            "On a school night?"

            "We both have the same stuff due tomorrow and when I talked to her an hour ago she hadn't started any of it either.  She wanted to know if I could come over and work on it with her."

            "I guess.  But I'm not crazy about you spending the night there.  You'd better get some sleep and not stay up all night giggling."

            "I don't feel much like giggling.  I don't even feel much like studying.  I just need to get away."

            "I understand.  But you can't keep hiding from Spike.  You're going to eventually have to talk to him.  If we had a huge place like Travis, you might be able to avoid him, but these four rooms are all we got."

            "I don't want to hide from him,"  Dawn says, a few more tears escaping her eyes.  "I just wish…God, Buffy, you and the Bad Boy thing.  You just can't help yourself, can you?"

            _Me and the Bad Boy thing, Buffy thinks on her way to the cemetery.  __Birds of a feather, fucking together.   _

            As she approaches the center of the cemetery, she can hear the grunts and groans of a scuffle ensuing.  She extracts her stake from her pocket, feeling like she really should be punching a clock when she goes into the cemetery.  She is just here to pay a visit, dammit!

            In the clearing, she observes two figures struggling.  Moonlight illuminates the familiar white head of her black-clad lover being dwarfed by some horned beast with wild, long hair and arms as big as Redwoods.   She puts the stake away.  He'll holler if he needs her.  

            She watches from afar as Spike is flung to the ground.  He doesn't linger there long.  In seconds he is back on his feet.  He doesn't have a weapon on him.  Though seemingly slight and out leagued by the hulking, Shaquille O'Neil of a demon he is tangling with this evening, he will not give up.  The demon levels a blow at his face that would leave even the most experienced prizefighter down for the count.  Spike merely sputters, before returning a, equally forceful punch that staggers the demon.  

            "You demon types are always trying to re-arrange my face,"  Spike says, coming for the demon again.  "No doubt from some deep-seeded envy.  I'm a bloody Adonis and you…well…"  he lands the demon with a roundhouse kick, sending him to the ground.  "If I can't say something nice, I won't say anything at all."  He lifts the demon into a seated position before delivering the coup de grace.  "Actions speak louder than words anyway, mate."  He places both hands on either side of the demon's grotesque and dazed head, giving it forceful twist.  There is a deadly snap and the demon's body flails helplessly.  Spike releases his hold and allows the carcass to rest on the ground.   "Death by cliché.  Sad, really."

            "Good job, honey,"  Buffy says, making her presence known as she walks towards him slowly.

            His eyes find her face instantly and he smiles.  "Bloody Ger'acht demon.  They're big and as dumb as a NFL linebacker, but in the right setting, they can be charming and quite the dinner guest.  Met one in Tunisia years ago who did these amazing card tricks.   They feed on human connective tissue.  Never understood the appeal myself, but the one I spoke to said you haven't had anything until you've tasted the Achilles tendon of a Bedouin."

            Spike is walking off in the direction of a low-to-the-ground tombstone and Buffy notices he's favoring his left side.  He sits carefully as pain breaks out on his face.

            "Looks like he got a taste of Spike,"  Buffy says, walking towards him.

            "Yeah.  I got snagged by one of his horns.  Shall I fill out a form for workman's compensation?"  

            "Let me see it,"  she says, her hands reaching for the hem of his untucked tee shirt.

            "It's all right, Slayer.  It's just a scratch."

            "Spike, you know how I hate the I'm-fine-go-on-without-me bullshit.  Let me have a look."

            He sighs and rolls his eyes, lifting his shirt just a peek.  

            It's a clean puncture wound that has gone all the way through.  As she presses the flesh around the red bulls eye of the wound, she catches the scent of butcher's blood.  Pig's blood.  She thinks about all the times she has called him a pig in the past, thinking it ironic that now he is mostly pig on the inside.

            "What's the prognosis, doc?  Am I gonna live?"

            "Yeah,"  she says.  "If you were human, probably not, but with the convenience of being a vampire, you'll be up to kicking demon butt again in no time."  She pulls the shirt back down and hops up on the tombstone.  He swings an arm over her shoulder and tugs her close, kissing her on the forehead.  She looks over at the still form of the demon, noticing a trail of sherbet orange fluid oozing from its nose.  "Spike, why did you kill him?"

            "Why?  Oh, did I not mention the whole bit about Ger'acht demons feeding off human connective tissue?"

            "Yeah, you did.  And that makes them a threat to humans.  Not to you."

            "You're the only threat to me, love.  And seeing as we're currently post-coital every post meridian these days, I'm not too worried."  He swipes a wicked tongue across the arch of her eyebrow and cups her breast.

            "I'm being serious, Spike,"  she says, pulling away from him.  "Why did you kill him?"

            Spike's eyes register a complete lack of comprehension.  "That's…what…we…do, isn't it?"

            "That's what _I do, yes."_

            "Sorry, love.  I've just been following the non-Judeo Christian credo that a couple that slays together stays together.  You've never asked me why I killed demons and vamps before.  Why now?"

            "Well, it's just that…for a while there you were just killing for the fun of it.  When you couldn't kill humans."

            "Buffy, I was killing vamps to--  "  He catches himself…and the meaning of Buffy's interrogation.  He rocks back slowly on the tombstone, folding his arms.  "Oh, I think I'm beginning to 'catch a clue' as the young ones say.  This all has something to do with what you and Dawn talked about tonight."

            She is relieved by this, but she does not look at him, worried that he'll see more about what went on written all over her face.    "Sort of."

            "The Travesty caught a glimpse of Mr. Jaundice eyes.  I thought as much.  And now he's afraid of me."  He laughs and pats himself on the back.  "I still got it."

            "Congratulations on still being perceived as the vanquisher of innocents Spike.    Travis doesn't want to have anything more to do with Dawn and she's heart-broken."

            "Little cowardly minger!  I'd like to vanquish his innocent arse."

            "Spike, he thinks you're a vampire.  All of his friends think you're a vampire!  This could be a really big deal.  You know how teens talk.  Soon word would leak to the guidance counselors at school who could turn the information over to child protective services and before we know it, they'll be taking Dawn away from us."

            "You're forgetting, love.  Most of the world doesn't believe vampires exist.  Any adult in earshot of the sprogs prattling about bloodsuckers would turn a deaf ear.  To most, I may as well be Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny or even the bleedin' Tooth Fairy.  Don't worry, Buffy.  No one's going to take Dawn away from us."

            She settles uneasily into his arms.  There is more that is worrying her.  _Travis thought Spike looked as though he wanted to eat him…He had heard the growl; he had felt the predator in Spike lurking.  She looks over at the dead demon again and shivers._

            "I could throw my duster over it if it bothers you,"  he says, close to her ear.

            "_It's not bothering me,"  she says.  __The other demon, sitting right next to me, is.  _

            "Darling, look at me.  Turn your face and look at me."  She faces him as instructed.   "Who do you see?"

            She reaches to touch his cheek.  "You."

            "All right.  Now…"  before her eyes and under her hand, his face contorts.  She doesn't flinch as he reveals his inner self to her.  To her, sometimes, his demon visage is like a second set of clothing.  Sometimes she even lets him fuck her like that.  And sometimes she has no choice.  Always, just beneath the surface, lurks that being.  Sometimes it's hard to remember that when he's barefoot and disheveled in the morning, yawning at the kitchen counter or when he's lying on the sofa laughing at the exploits of Col. Hogan and the so-called prisoners of Stalag 17.  She has been laboring under the delusion that she has domesticated this beast with her love, but every once in a while that idea seems farcical and far-sighted.  She lets her fingertips whisper over the ridges on his forehead and tries to see, conversely, if she can perceive the man hiding behind the demon scowl, but it is only the hair that she recognizes with any clarity.  "Now what do you see?"  he asks.

            "Still you,"  she says softly.

            "I am a vampire, Buffy.  And I always will be.  It's who I am.  My vampirism isn't just a part of me; it IS me.   I wake every day fighting.  The struggle is with me from the minute I open my eyes.  And some days I feel like crawling out of my own skin and screaming.  But every day…"  his voice has become muted and tender and the fierce scowl dissipates until he is looking at her through his icy blue eyes again.  "Every day I wake also with the knowledge that you love me.  In the morning, when I can see the sunlight from behind the curtains, and I can feel your warm body next to mine, I feel like nothing can touch me.  I look at you, with your lashes against your cheeks and your sweet mouth slightly open and I think, 'Ah, now this is worth fighting against whatever is inside of me that wants to come out and not play nice.'  It's those small, quiet moments when I realize how much you mean to me, those times when you're not looking.  I've never had anything like this."  He tilts her head towards his as he speaks, his eyes downcast, his hands wrapping around her head.  "I made a pledge to you that I wouldn't kill, remember?  And I haven't.  And I won't.  I may be a vampire, but when I make a promise to a lady, I follow through 'til the very end."

            She runs a hand through his hair.  "But what if something ever happened to me?  Would you kill again?"

            He thinks for a minute.  "Yeah, I would."  He looks at her dead in the eye.  "Myself.  I'd kill myself is something ever happened to you, Buffy."

            "Don't be so melodramatic, Spike."

            "You're right.  I couldn't kill myself.  There'd be no one to look after the Nibblet.  That is, if she'll ever reach a point where she wants me hanging about again."  He looks at her sheepishly.  "After this conversation, I'm not certain you want _me hanging about anymore.  Still love me?"_

            She gives him a crooked smile.  "Hopelessly so."

            "So _we're all right then."_

            "Well, as all right as two people involved in the most dysfunctional relationship since the dawn of man and vamp, but we have something.  And it's special.  And it's all ours."

            He pulls her close to him.  "And it's the best thing that's ever happened to me."

            They linger there in each other's arms for a while as the night deepens.  There is no kissing, or touching beyond their arms wrapping around each other's forms.  And there is no talking at all until she breaks from his embrace and hops off the tomb, extending her hand.  

"Come on, Spike.  Let's go home."


	4. Chapter Four

The next morning, Dawn is late coming home from Amelia's after she promised Buffy that she would be home by 7:00 am.  

            "You'll never make the first bell now,"  Buffy warns as she follows her sister through the kitchen.

            "I've already showered and everything.  I just came in to get my lunch."  She reaches in the fridge to grab an apple.

            "That's all you're going to have?"

            "I don't have time to make a sandwich."

            "I could make you one really quickly."

            "Forget it.  I'll pick something else up in the cafeteria."

            "Then you'll need money."

            "Got some in my backpack."

            Spike shuffles drowsily into the kitchen then, one eye open, scratching his head.  His black tee shirt has been hastily thrown on and his jeans are zipped but unsnapped.  He yawns and stretches, trying to focus.

            "Morning,"  he says hoarsely.  

            Dawn looks at him for a brief second before turning her head, stuffing the apple into the front pocket of her backpack.  "Well, I'm outta here so you two can start the 'Can-Fuck-Me Derby.'  Looks like Spike is already at the gate."

            "Dawn!  You're…you're GROUNDED!"  Buffy yells.

            Dawn's mouth expands to the size of a serving platter.  "What!"

            "I said, you're grounded!  If you're going to talk like that, you shouldn't be allowed out of the house."

            "You can't ground me!"

            "Sorry.  I've got the guardianship, the money paying the rent for the roof over you head and your allowance.  So, that makes me pretty grounding-worthy."

            Usually Dawn would turn to Spike in a case like this and she has to force herself not to.

            "But…but…"

            "Dawn, don't argue with me.  You come straight home from school.  And no library tonight."

            Dawn fluffs out her cheeks, looking at once as though she's about to say something and explode.  Finally, she turns and bounds out of the kitchen.  Upon leaving, she slams the door.

            Spike is laughing as he leans against the doorframe.  "'Can-fuck-me-Derby.'  That's brilliant."    

            "No!  Not brilliant!  Disturbing.  You know what Mom would do if she heard her using language like that?"

            "Exactly what you did, pet."

            Buffy sighs.  "Dawn wouldn't even be saying things like that if Mom were alive."            "Darling, she's angry right now.  It'll pass."

            "Yeah,"  she glowers as she folds her arms.  "Like a kidney stone."

That afternoon, Dawn returns from school later than usual.  Spike is alone, still smarting from the injury he received last night, so he's crashed out on the sofa watching _Judge Judy.    _

            She expects to see him there.  But when he rises from the sofa she instinctively hugs her backpack to her as her eyes deaden to a leveling glare.

            "Hello, Nibblet,"  he offers softly, muting the TV.  

            She says nothing and heads straight for her room, slamming the door behind her.  It seems this is going to be his running commentary.  And though it hurts Spike that his little confident and former partner in petite crimes isn't speaking to him, he's not going to let it bother him.  He's too accustomed to this behavior from Summers women and he knows that every time they slam a door on him, they're secretly begging for him to come in.

            But he hopes the invite will come soon.  It's lonely on the other side of the door.

            Two days into the grounding, Buffy realizes that she has put more of a restriction on herself than she has on Dawn.  And her little sister knows it.

            Buffy and Spike are sitting at the kitchen table late one night.  The TV is blaring in the den and it's been bothering Buffy for an hour.  Her entreaties for Dawn to turn it down have gone unheeded.

            "Dawn!  One more time.  Turn that noise down or I'm coming in there!"  Buffy bellows from the kitchen.

            The decibels are reduced somewhat, but not to any level that Buffy would call listenable.

            Buffy lets out a rush of heated air and tries to settle back into what she's working on.

            "The Blandrratta from Southeast Asia,"  Spike says.

            "Oh, yeah.  That guy."

            "You were a bit slow on your response the other night to the streaming mucus he sicks up.  And believe me, you don't want that goop gettin' anywhere near you.  Causes nasty burns that go right to the bone."

            "But I killed him, didn't I?"

            "Yes, pet, but you had to use two weapons, one I had to throw to you."

            "I know I should have used the axe first, I know.  You told me.  But when I did get him with the axe…you have to admit that was pretty cool when he broke open like an egg."

            "It was inspiring, love.  But I'd like to see you not rely on your weapons so much.  You've got the strength in your arms and in your hands to take on any demon that worms his way into Sunnydale.  Now take what I did with the Ger'acht the other night,"  he positions his hands, about to demonstrate when the TV suddenly blares again.  His mouth goes to one side.

            "Dawn!  You're busting eardrums again!"  Buffy warns.

            "You think I want to listen to all that disgusting stuff about demons and mucus?"  she calls back.

            "Then go to your room!"

            "But I'm watching this.  It's the last episode of the _Real World."_

            "I can tell you what happens, Dawn.  The seven strangers tell each other they'll keep in touch, they go their separate ways, and they never see each other again.  Now either turn it down or turn it off!"

            It doesn't stop.

            "Sweetheart, she's just trying to get a rise out of you,"  Spike counsels.  "Just let it go."

            "She's going to get more than a rise out of me in a second."

            "What I was saying.  About the Ger'acht demon.  You've got to get him into a vulnerable spot—

            The volume slips up a little.

            "—get him on the ground.   I've seen you handle a troll hammer.  A giant his size shouldn't throw you.  So you get behind him---

            And still the volume climbs.

            "You place two hands on either side of his head---

            The volume is now all the way up.  

            "And you SNAP!"

            Buffy springs to her feet, off and running to the den.  The volume is adjusted to a mere whisper.  And she returns triumphantly with the remote control.  She sits down in a huff, shoving the remote under one of the books on the table.

            She smiles brightly.  "I've snapped a demon's neck before.  You don't have to give me pointers on that."

            A smile creeps across his face as well, as he glances over at the den, seeing Dawn slumped in defeat on the sofa, her arms crossed, her brow lowered against her dark-eyed glare.  These little battles always amuse him.  While sparring, the two sisters are so adorable he could hug them silly.

            "I could have taken that Gerack demon,"  she says petulantly.  "In three easy moves."

            "No, no.  Ger'acht."

            "Ger-OTT,"  she bites out.

            "It's acht.  Like _acht tung."_

            "It doesn't matter that I can't pronounce 'em.  As long as I can kill 'em."

            "I don't know, Slayer.  Some demons are a bit peevish about their names."

            "Are they…William?"  she coos sweetly.

            "Hey!  What did I do to deserve that?"

            "Nothing, William.  Nothing at all,"  she says in a sing-songy voice.

            "You know I don't like that…"  he says   "Buffy Anne…little Buffy Anne.  What a cute name for a little sprite such as you…"  He tickles her playfully under her chin.

            "Stop!"  she says, really asking for more as she clamps her chin down on his wiggling fingers.

            "How did widdle Buffy Anne grow up to be Big Bad's widdle honey bun?"

            "I don't know.  Just one of the hazards of the job, I guess."

            Dawn is paralyzed with horror on the sofa, watching the two loves birds carry on.  Sometimes it's just too much to take.  She's only glad that they usually restrict these shows of pukey affection to the times when they're semi-alone.  This was the kind of human right's abuse Amnesty International should know about.

            As she's watching them, Spike takes a wayward strand of Buffy's blond hair and removes it from her face.  She reaches to touch his face and Dawn knows that this is usually the wind up for a kiss.  But they just keep staring at each other, still touching each other, still with those simple smiles on their faces.  They both seem to become simultaneously aware that a silence has descended on the apartment and that they are being watched.  Dawn switches her gaze to the TV, watching a _Real World roomie lug an oversized duffle bag down a staircase, signaling that his life in a goldfish bowl is about to end._

            Spike's lips travel lightly over Buffy's brow as he whispers, "We were talking about demons."

            "I thought we were talking about us,"  she says back.

            "Same difference, love."

            She chuckles a little as she feels him nuzzling her cheek.  At just that simple touch, she's excited enough to grab him and impale herself on him right there at the table.  But Dawn is watching from the other room, and listening more intently now that the sound has been turned way down.

            "We may have to bend the rules a little now that she's grounded,"  Buffy says sharply into her ear.

            Spike raises an eyebrow.  "Can you be quiet?"

            "Never.  With you."

            "Then we had better get back to demons…"  he licks the shell of her ear, at last taking a nip at the tasty lobe that dangles ring-free.  "…before the cock crows."

            Her face feels flushed, so she knows she has to pull away.  The area between her legs is throbbing so much she can almost detect movement beneath her two-toned denim hip huggers.  He shoves a book in front of her, resuming his instructor stance and moves his chair away.

            "There,"  he says, pointing to a picture of a particularly hairy demon on page 65.  "Seen one of those before?"

            Her mouth flies open in mock recognition.  "Cousin Craig!"

            "Now you just want to be silly.  I'm trying to be show you ways to prolong your Slayer existence beyond the score and five years you got and you're wanting to be the giggly school girl."

            "I got it bad, I got it bad, I got it bad…I'm hot for teacher,"  she sings.

            "Slayer, please.  Focus.  Now."

            "All right,"  she concedes bashfully, looking at the picture again.  She takes a breath.  "Haldron demon."

            He narrows his eyes.  "You're certain?"

            She takes another look.  "Yeah.  That's a Haldron all right."  She shivers a little.  "I remember that hair.  It was like hacking away at a shag carpet that moved and smelled like cedar."

            "And how do you kill it?"  

            "Well, that time I used---

            "Na ah ah!  How do you kill it now?"

            She rolls her eyes and smiles.  "I'll snap its neck."

            "Good girl.  But dismemberment and strangulation would have been acceptable answers as well."

            Dawn is watching them again, while absent-mindedly switching channels, not able to settle on one particular thing.  Finally, towards the upper end of the channel scale, she glimpses the sight of an exposed female breast and wonders if Spike has ordered the porn channel without anyone knowing about it.  She leans into the TV, turning the sound down for once using the button at the bottom of the console.

            "In arousal," the announcer says, "the female nipple becomes quite hard.  The flesh of the breast becomes firmer.  Her genitalia swells, becoming engorged with blood.  The inside of her vagina becomes slick with moisture, in anticipation of the sex act.  There will become a point at which the female desires penetration, but often that is not enough to bring about her release.  Often times, other means of stimulation must be utilized.  Which brings us to the clitoris, the sometimes elusive band of nerves at the opening of the vagina which is particularly sensitive during arousal.  It is the counterpart to the male penis, but miniscule in comparison.  The clitoris can be stimulated during penetration if the penis is slanted against it; otherwise it can be stroked by the tongue or by the finger to achieve the pressure that builds and builds, bringing about the female orgasm."

            Dawn snaps off the TV and sits there in the darkness for a minute, hugging her knees to her chest.  There is a memory forming in her mind, one that she has been trying to annihilate since the time it became an aural play in her mind.  Listening from the other side of her sister's bedroom, hearing Buffy moan…the bed squeaking, the headboard slamming against the wall…Spike grunting, growling, hissing…Dawn knew what they were doing.  She knew how they were doing it.  The picture came alive in her mind, formed by the sounds.  Naked flesh, skin on skin, exposed parts…her sister's nipples hardening…(she didn't want to think of that!) and the suckling noises Spike made as he tasted them (Oh, God, she didn't want to think of that!).   That picture.  She couldn't destroy the negative.  She saw it over and over again.  She saw Spike's hands all over her sister, she saw her sister's hands on him.  And she saw her own hand go somewhere else, saw it and didn't feel it until it got there.  And she found that elusive little band of nerves, all her own.  And she sang along. 

            Embarrassed even now, she gets up and runs down the hall to her bedroom.  Once in her room, she slams down on the bed, shoving a stuffed animal out of the way, so tired of being the little girl.  She had her period years ago.  She kissed her first boy even before that (she never told Buffy that, but she did tell Spike just because he was teasing her one day).  And she had her first "release" that time in the night when the couple who used to quarrel and come to blows coupled and blew away the night with each other's sighs.

            It is time again.

            She lies down across her bed in the darkness, hearing nothing from the couple but the occasional, "No, you can't fight it that way.  You have to use strangulation or--- and Buffy interrupts always, "By snapping its neck."  It's a constant refrain.  Spike wants her to snap the demon's neck.  He always wants her to snap the demon's neck.  If she uses a weapon, she's weak.  She has to snap the demon's neck, snap it so that it lies lifeless beneath her.  She can only do this when he is watching.  He has to be watching her because if he isn't watching then she may get killed before his eyes.  Before his eyes.  Before their eyes.  Before her eyes.  She saw them before her eyes, even though they were in the next room.  Behind the wall, before their eyes saw her as something else beyond the girl, the girl was growing and the girl was…

            Coming.

            She lies down, panting, hating herself all again, but feeling as though she has just opened a valve that has emptied everything that has made her mad and wandering.  She hears the couple laughing and the sounds of chair legs being scraped against cheap linoleum.  She turns over on her side, hugging her pillow close, waiting for them to bring on the night, and the assurance that she won't hear that headboard pound against the wall ever again.  Dawn must not know and Dawn must not hear.  But Dawn does know and she hears.  And she sees.  Even when she closes her eyes against what night brings her, she sees.

            And she picks up the stuffed toy and hugs it close, drifting off to sleep.

            The next day, Dawn is coming into the apartment when she hears sounds signaling that her two housemates have forgotten she was coming home early on Friday.

            She is already in the den when she hears grunts and groans coming through the open door of Buffy's bedroom.  She thinks about turning right around and fleeing, but then she hears something different; the sound of breaking glass.  Her heart stills; _Oh, my God…they're fighting._

            She runs to the bedroom door to find Spike helping Buffy off the floor which is covered in a tapestry of glittering glass.  The frame of her mirror hangs empty.

            "Oh, God, love.  Are you all right?"  Spike says tenderly.

            She chuckles a little.  "Mom always said don't pretend fight in the house."

            "I didn't mean to throw you like that."

            "Well, that's where you and I differ, I guess."  Her hand still clamped in his, in one swift move, she lifts his black-clad form from the ground and flings him onto the floor.  Dazed, he lifts his head as she straddles his chest.  "What was that about me being a little slow on the uptake?"

            "Obviously said a little out of context,"  he says.  "But not quite wrong."  Pressing his hands to her shoulders, he pushes her off until she does a backward roll onto the floor.  Springing to his feet, he dances like a bantam weight, waiting for her to stand again.   On her feet, she presents him with an undercut that he laughs off, returning a jab to her jaw.

            "Hey!  I thought we said no facial bruising!"  she protests.

            "You started it!"

            One leg leaves the ground and connects with his side.  Spike's eyes bug out of his head as pain causes him to convulse and squat down on the floor.

            Buffy's hand flies to her mouth.  "Oh, my God!  Spike!  Your side!  I forgot…"

            He waves one hand as if to say, "It's nothing."  But his face is losing the precious little color it has.

            "Here, Spike.  Can you stand?"

            "Not right now.  Give us a second,"  he breathes.

            "Let me see it.  Is it bleeding again?"

            "I don't think so."

            She lifts his tee shirt.  No, there's no new blood, but it still looks angry.  "Maybe I should bandage it up again."

            "It's fine, Buffy, really.   Just let me lie here for a while."

            "Aw, sweetheart,"  she sits of the ground, gathering his prone form into her lap.  Gently, she begins to stroke his hair as waves of pain continue to cascade down Spike's stricken face.  She bends to kiss him.  "Maybe we should restrict the training to the training room and use the bedroom for…you know…other things."

            "I don't like the training room.  Giles is always hanging about.  And when the training gets serious, I can almost hear him saying to himself, 'Just stake him and get it over with.'"

            "You've been training me hard lately, Spike."

            "You need training, love.  Round the clock.  I'm only doing it because the thought of you being unprepared for a situation terrifies me."

            "Do you think I'm slipping or something?"

            "No.  I think you're fighting better than ever.  Says the man on the ground, smarting from a Slayer kick."  He looks up at her searchingly, touching her face.  "I don't want you to lose.  Ever."

            "Well, I don't want that either."

            "When you go out on patrol each night, part of me want to run to the cemetery before you and nuke the place so you don't have to face any of those beasts."

            "You can't do that, you know.  First of all, you don't have any nuclear weapons and secondly, those Perpetual Care people would be really pissed off if you destroyed their cemetery."

            "I know I can't do that.  I can't fight your battles for you, love.  That's your sacred birthright, not mine.  But darling…"  she is kissing the tips of his fingers, a gesture which is bringing a light mist to his eyes as he speaks to her.  "Just don't ever lose.  If I lost you…"

            "I can't promise something like that."

            "Then promise me that you'll always rely on me to help you, then."

            She smiles, kissing him lightly.  "Don't worry.  I'll be slaying until I'm 85 and putting runs in my support hose with every kick.  And you'll be my studly younger lover, holding off the baddies while I search for my dentures."

            "Now, that's how I like to hear you talk, Slayer.  Except for the part about the dentures.  You take better care of your teeth than anyone I know.  Floss, rinse, brush, waterpik…"

            "The better to nibble you with, my dear,"  she says, descending on his face and biting his upper lip playfully.

            He whips a hand around the back of her head and brings her face closer to his.  Their lips close tightly over each other's mouths.  It is usually at the sight of their tongues slicing against each other that Dawn turns her face but today she sees something else and she is caught completely off guard.  Maybe she has seen it before but has viewed it disguised as something else.  Lust, obsession, or the insatiable greed of early affection.  Today before her is a display of the triumph over the unattainable.  In each deep kiss she sees the couple take a separate plunge and emerge together, whole.   She sees also, in the twisting of hands in hair, the clutch of desperate need, of holding on, of fear of loss.  Whatever has brought these two warring hearts together is causing their perfect closeness, an enviable match of twin Cupids who found their idealized Psyches in each other.  And is a brittle, ethereal bond that could break like a web with the careless opening of the door or the stroke of a finger, but it is just as durable, and just as wondrous that creatures such as these could have built something so perfect.

Dawn turns away, walking slowly to the kitchen.  As she moves away from the pair, she hears Spike say, "I love you so much.  Don't ever forget that."

            "I won't.  And I love you too,"  Buffy returns.  "But we'd better stop.  Dawn will be home soon."

            "Yeah.  Day five of the Nibblet/Spike stand-off."

            "Oh, honey.  Eventually she'll talk to you.  We had a fight when I was seventeen and she swore she'd never talk to me again and it was three weeks before she did.  She's stubborn, that's all."

            She remembers that day.  And she also remembers what brought about the resolution.  Her mother, coming to her on an otherwise bright day threatened by rain.  She remembers her mother's halo of blonde hair and the worried concern on her face as she took Dawn's hand and explained to her, slowly, and in words that were delivered as sympathetically as possible, "Your sister is special.  She is the chosen one.  And I can't exactly tell you what it means, but I do know that it makes her life a little harder than most teen girls'."  Dawn had been handed that rhetoric in various forms over her childhood and it always seemed like favoritism to her.  But this day, she remembers that her mother's eyes filled with tears that she didn't try to hide and she uttered these words with downcast eyes as the tears spilled over onto Dawn's Barbie duvet.  "Her life may be short, Dawnie.  She may not live to be…old.  She may not even live to be twenty-five.  So you have to love her now, Dawn.  Because she may not be here for us to touch and love for as long as we want her to be."

            The minute she was called, Buffy began dying.  

            It scared Dawn to death to think about her sister being anywhere else but where she was, in the next room, in the next neighborhood, in the library with her friends.  She thought about life without her and couldn't.  Because in all her imagined happiness of the future, Buffy was always right there.  She projected her first date…how jealous Buffy would be that her date was so much better looking than _her first date had been.  She thought about her first formal dress…not nearly as dowdy as any of Buffy's had been (and the one she has picked out for the Homecoming dance is far more risqué than anything Buffy ever owned, save a few suggestive halter tops).  She thought about graduation, getting class protector (natch.  Runs in the family), going to a REAL college, (not UC  Sunnydale, Harvard on the Hellmouth), going away, but always staying close to her sister and her mother who would always be there._

            Her mother was gone.  And Buffy, though sometimes shouldering the world while slathering mustard on Dawn's sandwiches in the morning, has remained a constant.  When her life was threatened by a hell bitch hell bent on taking her away from this realm, Buffy protected her, almost to the point of suffocation.  But in that time, the sisters had shared something not many sisters have the privilege of knowing; that unconditional love comes not from blood shared or blood shed---it comes from the inner knowledge that love is the one precious element of the earth that cannot be split in two, cannot be cut, given a carat weight, clarified, and sold, cannot be even defined and displayed on a chart with an abbreviation dreamed up by men in white coats in sterile labs.  It is there.  And is fragile and weightless, but boundless and strong.

            Her love for Buffy would always be there.  It was always these outsiders who cut into their lives who baffled her.  The Scoobies love her because she is Buffy, their friend, and they would do anything in the world to help her, even putting their lives in danger and sacrificing normalcy for the state of the unknown which is the Slayer's life.  Giles loves her because he is her Watcher, and as the name implies, is duty-bound to provide the aid and guidance necessary to keep her alive and Slaying.  But Spike…

            There is no reason for him to love Buffy as he does.  Dawn knows that in the time he was stricken with the Initiative-implanted chip which dictated his behavior for nearly two years, he had to side with the Slayer, or die.  The quick impulses and rapid-fire responses were zapped by a piece of micro-sized technology deep in his brain.  Under the direction of the chip, he had lived a fairly brutality-free life, except for the occasional "spot of violence" before bedtime, mostly consisting of killing his own kind for the sake of it.  And in that time he had come to know Buffy and had come to love her.  And though he has been free of the chip for months, the love remains, even more pure, even more distilled of anything anyone might conceive of as being a vampire's bid for real eternal life.

            Dawn knows Spike loves her.  He sees it in everything he does.  At night when they think no one is watching, the two of them bent over books at the kitchen table---there's that action.  It could be the unconscious touching of hands or the way Spike will tuck a stray hair behind her ear.  Or that look from yards away.  _That look.  The one that says, "She's mine," not in a possessive or gloating way, but one that reminds the lover that the person in view is the one that would make his heart beat if it could, makes his unlife complete, makes his purpose in this world a little more defined._

            They are both killers.  Buffy may soften the title with the term _slayer, which she prefers, but at the end of the day, she has killed things.  And he has killed thousands, multitudes, whole small towns, a soulless bin Ladden with a "been there, done that, want to do more" attitude.  Spike has never once said he was sorry.  But for there are times that he cries, and Dawn hears this too, and she wonders, she __wonders, is he thinking about it all?  Is he thinking about the innocents he has put in their graves?  Is he thinking about the children who have no one to call Mommy and Daddy because one night he woke up crazed with thirst?  Is he thinking about them as he covers Dawn in a blanket at night after she's fallen asleep on the sofa and whispers, "I love you, Nibblet"  as he places a kiss on her forehead  (she hears that.  Sometimes she just pretends to be asleep so that he will go to bed and she can watch what she wants to watch on TV)._

            She has felt his love as well.  She's felt all the love contained in the small space they share…as a family.  Dawn saw her parents' marriage combust, wither and fade before her eyes.  She had never seen the passion.  She had always viewed herself as the last chance baby, the one that would solidify her mother and father's togetherness.  She failed them, she has always told herself because in her life she had grown up with nothing but accusations and arguments between the two of them.  Buffy would always take her hand, lead her away to play in the backyard.  And when the arguments grew intense, Buffy would lead her little sister out of the neighborhood to the swings.  Dawn would dare her sister to swing her higher, higher.  Behind her, Dawn would hear muffled sobs, but in front of her there was only blue sky.

            Here, in her house, for the very first time, there is passion.  Not the passion of anger and lies, but the passion of truth and goodness.  There is a sense of worship between Buffy and Spike, a kind of kinship in which they are disciples of each other.  Spike does not feed; he feeds on her soul.  Buffy does not threaten him, nor is she threatened by him; there's always a hand to tuck that stray hair away from her face and to show her that there are other ways of dealing with demons.

            _He wants to keep her here, Dawn thinks as she walks to the back door.  Does it matter that his interests may not be in the greater good?  He's doing all he can to make sure Buffy stays as she is--- his girl, his love, his warmth, his salvation.  The love of his life revisited every time he looks into her eyes._

            But even as Dawn knows this, she knows something else.  Their frantic togetherness.  It is not forever.  Something will happen.  She opens the back door.  The web of a long-gone arachnid stretches at the separation of the door from the frame.  It expands, but it does not break.  She slams the door shut, testing the elasticity of the weaver's work.  It springs back, not exactly as it was, but still in one form.  A few of the strands have broken, but it is still a marvel.  What creatures can do…

            "Dawn?"  Buffy's voice sounds automatically from the bedroom.

            "Yeah, Buff,"  Dawn answers, smiling still at the durability of the web.

            Buffy appears at the kitchen door, Spike close behind her.  Her sister's face is full of curiosity. "Why did you come in the back way?"  she asks.

            She looks at the two of them.  She sees Spike's face.  The hangdog expression.  She has caused that.  He's not willing to meet her gaze, but she is looking at him.  And _them.  She can't look at one without looking at the other._

            She smiles now at the two of them, feeling the same weight of tears her mother must have felt the day she said, "Her life may be short…"

            "Just testing something,"  Dawn says.  

            Dawn wakes up out of a dead sleep, thinking that it must be morning.  She turns her face to the alarm clock.  _2:45!_

            Her mouth feels dry.  As long as she's up, she may as well get up and get a drink.

            Padding out into the hallway, she hears canned laughter.  Coming into the den, she sees Spike slumped in his favorite chair with the reflection of the TV on his pale face.  She tiptoes past, thinking she has been un-detected, but as she rounds the bend to the kitchen, she hears his voice.

            "Couldn't sleep?"  he asks.

            So much for her attempt at stealth.  "Um, I was sleeping fine.  Something woke me."

            "I hope it wasn't me.  I've been trying to keep quiet.  Bob Crane's not making it easy for me, though."

            "Is that always on or something?"

            "It will be.  Straight into Sunday.  It's a _Hogan's Heroes Fandamonium Weekend, love."_

            She manages a smile and goes into the kitchen.  Fumbling in the dark for a glass, she props open the fridge for a light.  She grabs the milk and puts it on the counter beside the glass.  She opens another cabinet and feels for the canister of Nestle Strawberry Quick.

            "Make one for me too, Nibblet,"  Spike calls.

            She reaches for another glass.

            Dawn carries the two glasses carefully into the den, realizing that the one in her left hand is a little too full.  She sips at it as she hands the one in her right hand to Spike and heads over to the sofa.

            Spike chortles at something Sergeant Shultz has just said and takes a sip of his Strawberry Quick.  Dawn tucks her legs under her and rifles through the Hershey Miniatures in the candy dish.

            "The Krackles and Mr. Goodbars are all gone,"  Spike says.   "Buffy finished them earlier.  Didn't even offer me a peanut, the selfish bint."

            "You know what helps the plain ones,"  Dawn says.  "Peanut Butter."

            "Now you're talking.  Go get it."

            She dashes for the kitchen and returns moments later with the peanut butter and a knife.  Spike is already unwrapping his miniature Hershey bar in the anticipation of the peanut butter.  

            "Crunchy or smooth, love?"

            "Crunchy, of course,"  she says, as though he should know better.

            "Sweet!"

            Dawn slathers her miniature with a generous helping of peanut butter, noticing that Spike is employing no such etiquette.  He's a dipper.  Dawn crunches thoughtfully as the show breaks for a commercial.  It's one of those retro commercials for the '68 Mustang.  

            "Ah, the year Ford ruined the Mustang,"  Spike says disdainfully, shaking his head as he takes a bite of his candy.  "I nicked a '65 once.  Smooth as silk ride, it was.  What a gem."

            "What happened to it?"  Dawn asks.

            "Dru drove it into a canyon.  She was always jealous of that car.  So she destroyed it,"  he says, licking the peanut butter from his thumb and index fingers.  "She almost got the staking of her unlife for that."

            Dawn clicks her tongue and dives in for more peanut butter.  "You don't have to worry about Buffy doing something like that.  She won't go near a driver's seat."

            "Strange, isn't it?  Going head to head with the undead doesn't even make her flinch, but a car…"  he trails off, not knowing how to finish.  "I've even offered to teach her."

            "You'd let her drive the DeSoto?"

            Spike chokes down his candy bar and begins to cough.  "I'd sooner let Harris paint my toenails!  I'd get a loaner car for that exercise in futility.  I love Buffy dearly, but my DeSoto is sacred."

            Dawn takes a sip of her milk and goes for another Special Dark.  "You know, I'm going to be driving soon."  She looks over at him.  Spike is fully engaged in devouring his own Special Dark/Jiff Crunchy combo.  "You gonna teach me?"

            "If you like.  About twenty hours of behind-the-wheel with an unlicensed driver like myself.  You'll be good to go."

            When he smiles at her, she feels the whip of what she said to him last Sunday night come back and hit her in the face.  And yet, he's acting as though nothing ever happened.  She feels this is deliberate on his part.  The old kill-them-with kindness ploy.  He's still a killer after all.  Well, she's not going to let him get away with that.

            "Spike,"  she says after a long silence.  "Um…a few nights ago, I said some things that I really didn't mean to say to you."

            He hears the note of seriousness in her voice and pauses, turning the wrapped miniature over and over again in his fingers.  "No, you did mean what you said.  And I probably did something to deserve your terse words."

            "No.  Travis' not calling me…that has nothing to do with you.  And everything to do with me."  She swallows a lump in her throat slowly, along with a hunk of chocolate and peanut butter.

            He knows all week she has been hurting silently behind that locked door.  And he knew eventually it would open.  He supposes he is a fool to be so welcoming to her return.  Summers women.  Can't resist 'em, can't teach them that the word like should be used only in similes and expressions of affection.

            "Oh, yeah?  What's wrong with you?"  Spike asks.

            "Plenty."

            "Look, Nibblet.  If you think our little picnic here in the middle of the night is going to be the setting for an impromptu pity party, I rescind my RSVP.  You know how I feel about you going on about how ugly you think you are.  It's rot and you know it."              "I've been waiting for him to say something to me.  He just won't.  It's like I've gone on invis all the sudden."

"If Travis isn't seeing you for the beautiful young girl you are, then he needs to do something about that hair of his getting in his mug all the time."

"And the homecoming dance is coming up in a week.  I was really counting on him asking me.  But I think he's already asked Jill Carlesco."

"Jill Carlesco?  Miss Silicon Valley of the Dull?"  he says, only slightly embarrassed that he knows so much about Dawn's classmates.   "Now what little respect I had for the boy is completely gone."

"Well, I don't know if he's going with her or not.  But they were walking down the hall looking really chummy.  Not holding hands or anything, but she was doing the chest-touching thing and I'm sure he was thinking about doing the same thing to her."

"You know what that says to me?  That says all Travis wants is a Barbie doll to play with.  Not a girl with any substance like yourself."

"He's not like that.  I mean, when we went out on Friday night we talked about…stuff.  Real stuff.  Guns in school.  Terrorism.  Politics.  It was, like, having a real discussion.  He's really intelligent.  He knows a lot about everything and I know a little about some things, so most of the time I just nodded and smiled, and said 'Exactly!  I've been thinking the same thing!'  I don't know.  Maybe he thinks _I'm dumb."_

"Hey, who got that Final Jeopardy question right the other night?  The one about the Boxer Rebellion?"

"Well, I did."

"And I lived through the bloody thing!"

"So maybe I'm too smart for him."

"Dawn, you can't sit here and second guess yourself all night and it won't do a damn bit of good.   Besides, I saw how he looked at you on Friday night."

Dawn gives him a sideways glance.  "Seriously?"

"Well, as much as I could see under all that fringe.  But I did see something that resembled…"  Lust was too strong of a word.  Arousal was far too advanced.  What did he see that night?  "heightened interest,"  he says, finally.

 This momentarily cheers her.  She thought she had seen something in his eyes as well.  And there was such an easy chemistry that the two of them just slipped into like yesterday's blue jeans.  When the night was over there was such promise, there was such a hope of continuance.  It was just her first date and it felt like the first of many.  Now there was such uncertainty she looked around at the apartment, thinking she would be spending many nights doing just that for the rest of her high school career.

"Did he look at me the way you look at Buffy?"  she asks sheepishly.

"How's that, love?  Can't look in a mirror and haven't captured it on video."

"You know!   Like you just want to take all of your clothes off in front of everyone and go at it like baboons?"

"I should hope Travis isn't looking at you like that!"

"OK, OK.  Maybe not _quite like that.  But I do hope that one day I'll have the kind of thing that you and Buffy have."_

"I had to wait over a century to find someone like your sister, Nibblet."

"Being human, I don't have that long to wait.  If I were still the Key, no problem.  But most guys like girls who are curvaceous and cute, not green and glowy."

"You're young yet, love.  You've got time.  You don't have to do it all your first year in high school."

"I guess I'm just…lonely.  I mean, it's great hanging out with you and Buffy and all, but I just feel like I'm ready to…grow up.  I don't want to be this little girl everyone thinks I am.  I'm not ready to be an adult just yet, but I hate being treated like I'm a stupid kid who doesn't know anything."

He hears the pain in her voice so acutely for a moment he feels absolutely helpless.  He can protect her from just about any demon out there, but he can't do anything to fend off the one fiend she's finding herself set upon by now---the devil that is adolescence.  

"Well, I don't think you're a stupid kid,"  he offers.

She smiles and reaches over to touch his hand.  "I know.  And that's what I always liked about you, Spike.  You never act like certain words should be spelled in front of me because I just wouldn't understand.  You've always treated me like an equal.  Well, maybe not like another vamp, but…you know."

"I know, pet.  And you know why?  Because you were the first person connected with your sister who treated me like a…you know."

"Well, I did have a crush on you at first,"  she says bashfully.

"No!  On me?  Aww…I'm flattered, Bit."

"Oh, come on!  You knew!"

"No, I didn't!  Honestly."  But he did know.  And he thought it was adorable.  But he never would tell her that.

"But then I thought about the age difference and all and thought, 'Well, maybe you're more Buffy's type.'  So I let her have you."

"Well, that was mighty charitable of you.  And much appreciated."

"And I hope you'll always be together.  Because I've never seen Buffy so happy."

There was that always be together thing again.  Such a nice thought.  Such a great hope.  Such a dream.

"She's my world,"  he says quietly.  "My whole entire world."

The bedroom is silent when he enters, except for the sounds of Buffy's deep slumber.  Over on her beside table he sees that it is now 4:30 in the morning.  He walks over to the curtains to make sure they're shut tight and they are, then he makes sure the door is shut as well.  

She is sleeping on her side with one arm draped over his pillow.  Her mouth is slightly open and her shoulders are bare.  She is lost somewhere.  But he thinks he can find her.

Slowly be begins to undress, laying all of his discarded clothing on the chair beside the bed.  Once he is stripped bare, he lifts the covers gingerly and slides in, gliding gently against her warm body.  He kisses her and he hears her start to stir.

"Mmm…you smell like peanut butter,"  she says, as though still in a dream.

"Yeah.  The Nibblet and I had a little late night nosh,"  he responds.

"So I take it you guys have patched things up?"

"She's not staring stakes at me anymore, at least."

"Well, good.  I'm glad." She nestles her head on his chest and drifts back into sleep.  He feels the soft fibers of her nightgown against his flesh.  So warm…He clutches at it lightly, bunching the fabric in his hands, lifting it slowly.

"What are you doing?"  she whispers.

"Just want to feel you against me, love.  Can you move a little?  I can't get it off you this way."

She raises herself just enough to allow him to pull the gown over her head, and then she falls back onto his chest.  Her breasts lie against his side.  So warm…One hand drifts over and covers the nipple, stroking it lightly.  It is flaccid and loops around his fingers like soft rubber.  But that warmth…it is still a marvel to him that she can be so warm.  His hand covers the entire surface of her breast now, cupping it, feeling it,

squeezing it ever so slightly.  He kneads it in his hands, caressing the soft flesh.  She makes a little sound, but she doesn't move and doesn't direct his hand away from where it is.  Perhaps she is too deep in sleep.  Perhaps she would see this as molestation.  But as he's thinking this, he hears her say,

            "That's nice."

            He kisses her lightly down her cheek, down her neck, down her chest until his mouth pauses before the light pink fireball at the center of her breast.  He latches on nimbly at first, aware that the touch of his cool tongue may awaken and anger her.  _We're not supposed to be doing things like this when Dawn is in the next room.  But within minutes she is mewling as his mouth pulls at her nipple and his tongue circles the toughening little peak.  With his free hand he covers the second one, drawing his fingers lightly over the neglected nipple.  If he could put them both into his mouth at one time he would and know the silken pleasure of both simultaneously.  He breathes in her scent, suctioning her supple flesh as he does.  Her hands are pressing against him, not to turn him away, but in a kittenish prodding to continue.  He knows that she is barely conscious.  She is caught between drowse and desire, it seems, as her hands scale his naked form, but her eyes remain shut and her lips stay silent._

            But now her arms are encircling his head, pushing him closer.  There are words coming from her mouth.  Sweet words, little coos, little utterances of affection and need.  Her breath cascades down on his hair and he is bathed again in warmth.  He purses his lips more tightly around the nipple as she writhes against the pillows, his name a whisper she hisses in the darkness.

            The edge of his incisor involuntarily draws itself sharply against the areole and in its jagged path he picks up the decidedly metallic taste of blood.  She gasps and flinches against him and he lifts his head.  She is fully awake now.  He watches as she leans over to snap on the bedside lamp so that she can examine the ribbon of crimson unfurling on her white flesh.  

            "Oh, God, Buffy…I'm sorry…I didn't mean to hurt you…"  he begins tentatively, wondering if what he's saying has any validity, to himself or to her.

            She draws a finger over the little wound, her face in jigsaws.  She looks up at him, her eyes still puckered by sleep, but slowly taking on recognition.  He expects her to get up.  He expects her to tell him to get up and get out.  He expects anything except what follows.  She curls a hand around the back of his head and forces him to her.

            At first she keeps a hand clamped on the back of his head, but at length the touch becomes tender and comforting.  The blood flows in little beads into his mouth and he allows each one to roll around on his tongue.  What was it about Slayer blood?  Was it the fact that it was so forbidden and so rare?  Or that it was naturally the most exquisite tasting liquid in the world?  Before it was the taste of murder and victory.  Now it is the taste of love and desire.   But there is precious little of it.  Even as he suckles, the wound is closing, healing quickly from Buffy's Slayer energy.  He laps up as much as he can, conscious of the fact that this may be the only time he'll have this opportunity to be so connected with her.  

            At last he unseals his mouth and wipes the corners with his tongue.  She is still running her hands through his hair, still nurturing him.  And she is smiling in the loveliest way. 

            "You all right, love?"  he asks softly.

            "Yeah.  You?"

            "Never been better,"  he says, nuzzling the area between her breasts, hugging her close.   He then looks over at the wound, seeing that it is still seeping a little.  "You need a band aid, pet?"

            "No,"  she says, reaching over for a Kleenex and then turning off the light.  "It'll be fine."

            She lies down on her side, allowing him to spoon up against her.  At this moment he can't be close enough to her.  And he has never been more in love.  He clasps the Kleenex against her breast, holding it there tightly.  The blood is almost a memory now, almost all gone.

            He kisses her behind her ear.  "We've all got the same blood now, love."

            "Yeah,"  she says sleepily.  "You know what that means."

            "What?"

            "It means you have to help put Dawn through college now."

            He laughs a little.  "That's going to cost Xander a lot of paychecks."

            "You're a pig, Spike…"  she says, halfway to dream land.

            "Oh, sweetheart!  You haven't called me that in ages."

            "Did I ever tell you how much I loved pigs?"

            "Just this one."

There is nothing more said between them.  Spike pulls her closer, nuzzling her hair as he buries his head into his pillow.  He doesn't know if he's going to be able to sleep now.  But he doesn't want to move.  He doesn't want to ever move from this warmth, this happiness.  He listens to her drift off and her soft breathing performs a lullaby for him.  And soon he is fast asleep as well.


	5. Chapter Five

The next afternoon, Buffy is busily preparing for her shift at the Bronze.  It's a Saturday night and she's expecting a crowd.  She gathers up everything she will need; her tip purse, her Advil and her stake.

            "Spike, there's a Stouffers in the freezer for Dawnie and for you,"  she reaches into the fridge and extracts a carton of butcher's blood, swishing it from side to side.  "Don't get them mixed up."

            "Got it,"  Spike replies.  "When will you be home?"

            "Two, three.  I dunno.  I have to close tonight."

            "Are you patrolling afterward?"

            "Hell no.  The only thing I'm going to be patrolling tonight is my bed."

            "Mmm…promise?"  Spike asks, encircling her waist and kissing the side of her face.

            "Honey, you know how I am after a Saturday night.  If I can drag myself home by my knuckles, I'm doing well."

            "You want me to come pick you up?"

            "No, that's all right.  I can manage."

            He takes her into his arms, squeezing her tight, noting that there's a wince in her return.  He pulls her away gently, looking down at her breast.  "Is that…painful?"

            "Just a little tender.  It'll be all right, though."

            "You're still OK with what happened last night?"  he asks softly.

            "Yes, honey.  I told you I was.  It was just a little love bite, that's all.  My boobs are a little sore anyway.  It's almost that time of the month."

            He arches an interested eyebrow.  "You mean it's almost time for Buffy to make her special blood pudding for her special fellow?"

            "In a couple days.  And if you're thinking what I think you're thinking, DON'T!  That's disgusting."

            "Aw.  It's such a shame to let a tube of cotton soak up all that bloody goodness."

            "Sorry.  And if I ever catch you going through the trash in the bathroom looking for a snack, you're couching it for a week."

            Buffy looks down at the assortment of drinks on her tray and tries to identify the syrupy brown drink coagulating in a clear tumbler.

            "What the hell is this?"  she asks, pointing to the libation in question.

            "Manhattan,"  the bartender barks back.  

            "Manhattan _what?  Sewer run-off?"_

            "Just serve the drinks, Buffy!  If they say anything about it, then they can talk to me.  I don't need your lip too."

            She sighs and shoulders the tray, walking over to table six.  They've already had quite a few.  Maybe they won't notice.

            But on her way back to the bar, she notices something.  Someone.  

            Off in the corner, near the heavy fire exit door that leads to the alleyway, she sees him.  He is sitting by himself, the blond curtain of hair obscuring his features.  He is nibbling at a platter of buffalo wings, regarding each one thoughtfully before sucking off the meat and grease from the spindly little bones.  He's not so much a dipper as he is a coater.  He immerses each wing into the ranch dressing, making sure it's all white before he devours it.

            _So this is how Travis spends his Saturday nights?  Buffy wonders, making a note to keep an eye on him.  Single white boy, pre-requisite presence of vamps out for a nip-and-suck.  Open season._

            As she returns to the bar, she hears an exaggerated spit take from table six.   "What the hell was that?"  he explodes

            "Table six needs another Manhattan.  And one not made from whatever you put in it when you couldn't find the right bottle behind the bar,"  Buffy says.

            The bartender glowers.  "All right, Carla.  Would you go and get a bottle of sweet vermouth from the storeroom?"

            "Sure thing, Sam."  She stops short, curiosity making her ask, "What did you put in instead?"

            The bartender swipes a rag over the top of the bar.  "Sambuco."

            "Eww!"

            "What?  It's sweet."

            Back from the storeroom, Buffy notes that the usual coterie is assembling.  The band has not arrived yet, but the stage is being set up.  Tonight's entertainment is provided by What's My Age Again, a Blink 182 tribute band from Fresno.  She had to read the flyer three times before realizing it was not meant as a joke.  She can scarcely believe Blink 182 has been around long enough to earn its own tribute band.  

            The bartender mixes the drink correctly this time.  As he's straining the cocktail into the glass, Buffy looks over at Travis again.  He looks like a big Blink 182 fan.  Maybe he's here for the band.  He's almost finished with his buffalo wings and he doesn't seem anxious to leave.

            "Here,"  the bartender says.  "Tell them this one's on the house."

            "Yeah, or I imagine it will be in your face,"  she says, taking the drink.  She walks over to table six with her most innocent smile on her face, realizing she will probably take the heat for the bartender's sloppy mixing.  "Sorry.  Bartender goofed.  He thought you ordered a Bronx Zoo.  Wrong New York borough.  Bartenders are notoriously bad with geography."      

            Out of the corner of her eye, she sees that a black figure in fishnet hose is now lurking by Travis's table.  At just once glance of the jet coatdress and spiked heels…well, she doesn't have to look much further.  She knows.  It's her business to be perceptive and intuitive.  But for the moment, things are all right.  Travis is ignoring the woman, wiping his fingers and munching on the celery garnish.  

            "Buffy!"  the bartender calls.

            She walks over distractedly, still aiming her stare at the goings-on at Travis' table.

            "Table ten just complained that they've been wanting to meet you all night and were wondering when you might make an appearance,"  the bartender says.

            "I was just over there.  They said they were deciding,"  she answers.

            "That was a half an hour ago.  They've decided already."

            She sighs.  Table ten is all the way across the room.  She weaves through the crowd as quickly as she can.  Hopefully they'll want something simple, like a pitcher of beer.  But no, they all want mixed drinks.  _Damn, those Sex And the City women, Buffy thinks.  __Do they have to be such trendsetters?  It used to be so simple.  Beer, wine, maybe the occasional scotch and soda.  Now it's all Candy Apple Martinis and Cosmopolitans.  She can bet she'll be having to make another trip to the storeroom after this drink order._

            Back at the bar, she angles for a look at Travis table.  Yep.  She should have acted while she had the chance.  The table is empty.  And the fire door is swinging shut.

            "We're out of triple sec,"  the bartender says.  "Could you---

            "Not now,"  she waves, walking away.  She begins to sprint.  She has plenty of time, she says to herself.  They couldn't have gotten that far.  She lunges for the door.  Out in the alleyway, she looks to the left, then to the right.  Then she hears the wail of a teen-aged boy whose voice hasn't settled on its adult pitch yet.  It's coming from over by the dumpsters.  Typical.  She often thinks she should hang a sign over the garbage saying, "This space for restaurant and vamp use only."

            She walks over casually to the pair, extracting the stake from her pocket.  She pats the woman gently on the shoulder.  The vamp whips her head around.  Her mouth isn't painted with Travis' blood yet.  Buffy's just in time.

            "And here's to you, Mrs. Robinson,"  Buffy says.  And she plunges the stake deep into her back.

            As the dusty remains of the vampire scatter on the pavement below, Travis' form slumps and falls hard.  Buffy catches him right before his head connects with the asphalt.

            "Whoa, you all right there, Travis?"  Buffy says, holding him just inches from the ground.

            The boy wears a dazed expression as he tries to put the pieces in place.  Buffy can almost hear his thoughts…_strange woman…took me to the alleyway…she was very strong…_

"What happened to the lady?"  he asks slowly.

            "Don't worry.  She's gone."  Buffy helps him to his feet, wary that those long, spindly legs may not carry him just yet.

            "That was so weird.  She just came up to the table and started talking to me, asked me if I wanted to go somewhere with her.  She wouldn't take no for an answer.  And then all of a sudden _I couldn't take no for an answer.  It was like she hypnotized me or something."_

            "Yeah, you got to watch out for the drive-by hypnotists in this town.  They do more than make people cluck like chickens."  Buffy relinquishes her hold slowly, making sure that Travis is capable of standing on his own now.  "Well, I gotta get back to work.  And you better go home."

            "That's probably a good idea.  Besides, I hate the band that's playing tonight.  I heard them when I was in LA last year.  They should call themselves, what's the Chord Again?"

            "I'll be sure to get out my ear plugs then,"  Buffy says.  

            As she begins to walk away, she hears Travis call to her.  She turns and sees that he has made no attempt to walk in the other direction.

            "Um…I was wondering…How's Dawn?"  he inquires sheepishly.

            "She's fine, Travis,"  she answers, irritation grating her voice.  "Hey!  I got an idea.  Maybe you should ask her that yourself!"

            He looks down at the pavement.  "I wanted to call her all week.  I really did have a good time with her last Friday night."

            "Oh, really?  Because she's under the impression that you didn't.  Could be all the phone calls that she hasn't been getting at home and the cold shoulder she has been getting at school."  Buffy folds her arms. 

            "I do like her, Buffy.  She's smart and funny and so pretty.  I mean…wow…when I saw her in those jeans…"  When Buffy's protective instinct begins to surface in the form of her hands going to her hips and a furrowing of the brow, he stops.  "Point is, I like her.  But…but…"

            "But what, Travis?"  _Say it, you coward!  My boyfriend scares you._

            "I just don't know how to tell her…and she's been kinda distant too.  Like she doesn't want to talk to me."

            Buffy doesn't know if she should be sharing this information of not, but she's going to, just so he knows he has made a big idiot of himself in front of her sister.  "You don't have to tell her anything.  She overheard you talking in the library last Sunday."

            Travis's eyes flash fear under the wedge of unruly blond hair.  "She did _what?"_

            "She heard you talking to your friends in the library about your date.  Something about the fact that you think my boyfriend might be a graveyard smash?"

            Travis exhales a breath.  "That's not even the reason I haven't called her."

            "Oh, yeah?  Well, according to Dawn you made it perfectly clear to your friends that that _was_ the reason.  And perfectly clear to her as well."

            "I wouldn't let the fact that your boyfriend gave me the creeps keep me from seeing Dawn.  No offence."

            "None taken.  When I first met him I wasn't exactly charmed by his presence either."  _His first words to me were in the form of a death threat.  Not exactly what I would call a come-on line, she finishes in her head.      "But why would you even say something like that in the first place?"_

            "Because…I didn't want them to know the real reason."

            "Mind sharing what that real reason is?"

            "Yes,"  he says.  "Because it will hurt Dawn.  And I think I've hurt her enough."

            "What the hell is it, Travis?  Does she smell bad?  Does she have onion breath?  Does she snort when she laughs?  What?"

            "It's my parents, all right!"  he shouts out.

            Buffy narrows her eyes.  "Your parents?"  And then she knows.  All too well.  Travis had to make a trip to the wrong side of the tracks and his parents want him to stay on the right.

            "They're such snobs.  They always have been.  And I hate it.  It hate it because I don't want to be anything like them.  They're always so quick to judge, so quick to put other people down because they don't drive the right car and live in the right neighborhood.  Mom drives all the way to LA to get her hair done still.  And she won't go near the shops in town.  She says they're all so _declasse.  And they're so strict.  You know one time they grounded me for a week because I said 'fuck'?"_

            "Shocking,"  Buffy says, wondering if she is too strict.  But she doesn't have to wonder about the other matter.  She is not a snob.  And she is definitely not _déclassé.          _

            "I didn't want my friends to know that my parents told me not to see Dawn anymore.  How would that make me look to them?"

            "OK, so you lied and made up stuff about my boyfriend instead.  And saying that you're afraid of a guy who's almost a head shorter than you makes you the big man on campus?"

            "He _is kind of short, isn't he?"  Travis shakes his head, as though realizing they're getting off the topic.  "Anyway, I didn't mean to hurt Dawn.  But I didn't see a way to avoid it.  I guess I really screwed this one up, didn't I?"_

            "Yes, you did.  In more ways than one.  You don't know what's been going on in my house this past week.  Spike and Dawn are extremely close to each other.  I don't know if Dawn told you this, but at the beginning of the year, our mother died."

            "Yeah, she told me that.  And I'm sorry."

            "Well, thank you.  Anyway, I didn't know what to do.  Suddenly I had to be a parent to a fourteen year-old girl.  Not something a twenty-year-old usually faces.  I needed someone to look after her and to help her through her grief, since I needed to cope with my own loss.  Spike was there.  He was more than there.  He took over as surrogate parent, brother and confidant.  And the two of them developed a close bond.  He would do anything in the world for her.  He sees himself as         her protector, a role he takes very seriously.  Sometimes too seriously.  So if he came off a little too shielding over her, that's why.  But when Dawn heard what you said in the library, she withdrew from him.  They're OK now, but what you said made for some really tense moments in the apartment."

            "I really, really didn't mean to cause any trouble."

"Well, you did.  So now what are you going to do?  Keep hiding behind all the lies or come up with something that resembles an apology?  Saying you're sorry would be the gentlemanly thing to do, not to mention the non-snobbish thing to do."

            There is a look of honesty shining from his face.  "I would like to talk to her."

            "All right, then.  Why don't you start by giving her a phone call, letting her know you're alive and a real dork for saying what you said in the library."

            "I'll go call her now.  Is she at home?"

            "Yep.  Hanging with Spike watching _Hogan's Heroes."_

            The fire door opens and the bartender sticks his head out into the alleyway.  When he sees her, his reaction is one of complacency.  "Buffy, this happens every night.  You run from the bar and out into the alleyway.  Isn't this one a little young for you?"

"I'm coming.  Keep your pants on,"  she answers tiredly, adding to herself, "for the sake of humanity."  She turns to Travis.  "That's me getting a verbal warning, Travis.  Gotta go."

            "OK,"  he says.  "Oh, Buffy…?"

            "Yeah?"

            "Your boyfriend…he's not really what…what…he's not…a monster or anything?"

            Buffy considers this for a moment.  Suddenly a memory materializes in her head.  She thinks back to last night.  She sees him again at her breast, his mouth hungrily tugging at her nipple as she nursed him with her blood.  She hears the snarls as he drew the nourishment into his mouth.  The bite was just a prick, but it startled her, reminded

her that the man she shares her bed with does have needs that go beyond what she can give her without putting her life at risk.  She allowed him to suckle and there was such a sense of communion in the taking of her blood.  There was nothing erotic in the touch of his mouth on her breast.  There was nothing sensual.  She was giving him life and she thrilled to the sensation of his lips becoming warmer as her blood filled his veins.    "Now I ask you, Travis,"  she says at length.  "Would I leave my baby sister at home with a monster?"

            Travis shrugs.  "I guess not."

            She turns on her heels.  "Then there's your answer."

It's almost 2:30 a.m. when Buffy cracks open the door to the apartment.  All the lights are off, but the TV is on with the sound turned down to an almost inaudible level.  Buffy tosses her keys noisily onto the table beside the door and Spike automatically turns and puts a finger to his mouth.  He indicates that Dawn is asleep at the foot of the sofa.  He springs up and meets her in the middle of the room, drawing her tired form into his arms for a welcoming hug.  

            "How long has she been asleep?"  she asks over his shoulder.

            "About an hour.  After swearing that she wouldn't because of what happened earlier.  Brace yourself, love.  The Travesty phoned tonight."

            She draws away from him slightly.  "I know.  He said he would."

He arches an eyebrow.  "How did you know?"

            "I saw him earlier.  We talked, got some things out in the open.  I encouraged him to do the same with her."

            "She locked herself in the bedroom while they were talking, but they were on the phone for a good two hours.  And when she came out she had a big smile on her face.  Seems he's invited her over to his house tomorrow."

            "Really?"

            "Yeah, and she's a bit worried that you think she hasn't paid enough penance for being creative with swear words and that you won't let her go."

            "Oh, I think she's learned her lesson,"  Buffy says.  "She can go if she wants."

            "She can?  Dammit!  And she asked for my help in convincing you and all."  He

snaps a pair of blunt teeth over her earlobe.  "I was looking forward to that part."

            "I guess I'm getting soft in my old age,"  she says.  "Besides, I'm too tired for anything but eight good hours of shut eye right now.  I'm turning in."

            "What about the Nibblet?  Should I carry her to bed?"

            "Nah, she'll be all right where she is.  Just let her sleep."

            "Then can I carry you to bed?"

            She extends her arms gratefully.  "That you can do."


	6. Chapter Six

"But why can't I go and buy a new dress?"  Dawn whines as her sister goes to the closet and pulls out another armload of dresses.

            "I told you, Dawn,"  Buffy tries to reason with her sister,   "I'm between paychecks right now and Dad hasn't sent his support payment yet.  You're just going to have to make do with what I have here, OK?"

            The invitation to the dance was given and accepted.  Travis would be picking up Dawn, with his Dad at the wheel of their 2001 Volvo station wagon, on Friday night.  This is Monday afternoon.  There is really no time to shop for a good dress, Dawn consoles herself as she looks at the assortment of taffeta and shantung formals on Buffy's bed.  All the good dresses had already been moved from the shops.  Anything left over would be a duplicate of someone else's gown and she didn't want to be someone's twin at her first high school dance.  But she can't hide her disappointment as she peruses the dresses that marked the milestones of Buffy's high school experience.  They bear the scars of her sister's calling.  The peach tea-length gown with the spaghetti straps is flecked with a few dots of dried blood.  The white gown with the fitted bodice is gray with vampire dust and the area under the arms tinged with perspiration.  The teal dress with the full skirt and the giant bow on the back…well, that is just plain ugly.

            "Here, how about this one?  I wore this when I was May Queen,"  Buffy says, holding the sea green dress up to her sister's chin.

            Dawn instantly wrinkles her nose and says in an exaggerated TV announcer voice,  "Sessions presents Sounds of the '90's with all your favorite hits from artists like Tone Loc and Roxette."

            "OK, OK…a little dated.  I get you.  Then what about this one?  It's got kind of a new Millennium flair to it,"  Buffy says, holding up the black silk number with spaghetti straps.  "Little black dress.  Never goes out of style."

            "Um, Buffy, I'm going to a high school dance, not a cocktail party."

            "You're right.  It is a little mature for freshman year."

            Dawn is now rummaging through the dresses like a complacent yard sale regular.   "This one's not too bad,"  she says, pointing to a mauve, velveteen knee-length dress with cap sleeves.

            "Oh, I always liked that one too.  And I think I still have the shoes to match.  Why don't you go try it on."

            "OK,"  she says, holding the dress to her and exiting the room.

            While Buffy is putting some of the rejects back onto their hangers, thinking that it might be best to just shove them all into a garbage bag after all the bad reviews they got, Spike appears at the door, holding a mug.  

            "So how goes Becky Sharpe's preparations for Vanity Fair?"  he asks.

            "Becky who?"  Buffy asks.

            "Never mind.  Guess Thackery was a bit before your time.  He was almost before mine."  He walks into the room sipping slowly.  "Why don't you ever wear some of these?"

            "I don't know.  Most of these would not be appropriate dress for my line of work.  Although I've worn some of them when unexpectedly called in for duty."  She holds up the white dress with the uneven hemline.  "You see this one?  I wore this for prom my sophomore year at Sunnydale.  What a memorable night that was.  I was all looking forward to my first prom at my new school and surprise!  Giles said, 'You can't go to the prom.  You have to fight the Master and die.  The books say so.'   So I fought the Master, he killed me, I came back, I killed him and then I got to go to the prom."  She sniffs the bodice of the dress.  "Eww…you can still smell the sewer water I drowned in."

            She was speaking so matter-of-factly, like dying was all in a day's work for her, when Spike's skin crawled when she said, "I died" and "I drowned."  He remembers when the words "I'm going to kill the Slayer" made up a huge majority of his vocabulary.  It was the one thing he dreamed of every night and the first thing he thought of when he awoke every day.  The call to kill her didn't just come from his own desire to make her Slayer number three with a bullet.  It was chanted all around him.  First from the Annointed One before he taught that little shit that he doesn't take orders from anyone and secondly from his sire.  He remembers Dru's dream-like coos in his ear, "Kill her for me, Spoike…kill her for me."  There was nothing more than he wanted to see this girl drowning in her own blood.  Over the years he had devised a number of cruel fantasies in which he took her life.  He once imagined cutting off her head and having it stuffed and mounted on his wall.  He then thought about just snapping her neck, leaving her skin untouched so that it could be used to upholster the furniture in his crypt.  As he recalls these things, he watches her as she so carefully handles a dress of delicate lace, marred by four slashes near the neckline.  He looks at her face and forces himself to remember she is just a young girl still.  Her face today is full of cares and she frowns deeply.  Her eyes are shadowed with two twin pools of shimmering gray.  The eyes that sparkle with gold are a little dimmed by the memories of so many would be happy events shrouded by violence and destruction.  Spike knows he has played a rather significant role in some of the more unseemly moments of her life.  He hunted her for years.  He remembers saying very clearly one night that he would make her neck his chalice and drink deep, only to wake up days later so much in love with her he couldn't think of anything else.

            He had come to Sunnydale to kill her, but instead he fell in love with her.

            Now when she's a bit late getting home from patrol, he paces the floor, worrying that the delay in her return means that she's lying somewhere dead and that he should have been there to save her.  Now when she comes home, battered and bruised and he applies ice to whatever is broken or contused, he wonders how much more her little body can take.  Her size has always been the great deception of her nature.  When he first saw her dancing at the Bronze, he thought he could take her in five easy moves, she appeared so delicate and harmless.  But he wasn't prepared for her strength, her stamina, her all-consuming need to win.  She was a fierce adversary, every bit his equal in battle.  He always knew that.  He thinks sometimes that's why he fell in love with her.  He knew he could never beat her.   But as she returns from her closet after putting back a few of the dresses, she smiles at him and once again he feels that rush, that same energy pulsing through him the day he knew for the first time that he could never kill her because he didn't want to live a day without her.

            He reaches out to touch her hand as she's about to return to the closet.  "Buffy…"  he says softly.  His fingers grip hers and she looks up at him, a bit taken back.  "I'm sorry."

            She knows instantly what he's talking about.  And she is so grateful she can't speak.  It's not often she hears these words.  "Thank you" she hears to the point of ridiculousness.  "You've got to do this" occurs on a daily basis.  But the "I'm sorry's…" they are raritites.  Hers is a thankless job.  The benefits are lousy, the pay is nonexistent, and there are no opportunities for advancement, unless one considers death and ascension into heaven a promotion.

            She finds her eyes are a little misty and she turns away shyly, flicking the runaway tears from her cheeks as she sits down on the bed.  Every day she finds a new reason to love him.

            Spike sits down slowly next to his suddenly quiet love, letting the taffeta of one long-lost high school memory crinkle under him.    He doesn't have to even ask what she's thinking about.  He looks down at the quilt of clothing lying on the bed; the patchwork of Buffy's high school experiences.  And here is Dawn, just embarking on her teen-age years, wearing Buffy's cast-off's.  Suddenly it doesn't seem a bit fair at all.  There is nothing to be done now about Buffy's past;  it is gone, lived, set.   Dawn should have something new, something that is hers.  This is her young life.  She is not the Slayer.  She is her own, wonderful person and she deserves to have something that belongs only to her.

            Dawn appears at the threshold now, wearing Buffy's dress.  It is much too short for her and she tugs subconsciously at the hem as though hoping to stretch it to her knees.

            "How do you I look?"  she asks warily, wrinkling her nose.

            "Fine, Dawn,"  Buffy says, her voice a bit hoarse from emotion.

"You look lovely, darling,"  Spike says, while inwardly he replies, "_Borrowed."_

            "I don't know if I want to show this much leg, though, at my first high school dance."

            "You're a little taller than I was in high school,"  Buffy notes.

Dawn glimpses the time on the clock radio by Buffy's bed.  "Oh, shi---, I mean, shoot!  Shoot!  I said shoot!  I told Amelia I'd meet her at the library in ten minutes.  I gotta run.  Spike?  Will you give me a ride to the library?  I know it's still kind of light out, but if you wore your cloak?"

"Yeah, Nibblet.  I'll fire up the DeSoto.  No problem."  
            "Thanks.  I'll just be a minute."

            Buffy watches her sister leave with an encroaching sadness eclipsing her face.  She picks up a coat hanger from the floor and begins batting at her thighs.   "I wish I could buy her a new dress,"  Buffy says.  "I wish I could buy her all the things she wants and needs.  It's just so…hard, you know.  Sometimes it's like…pay rent or rent from Blockbuster?  There just isn't enough money for extras these days."

            "Maybe there's something I can do to help,"  Spike offers, putting his arm around her.

            "Well, they are looking for a bus boy down at the Bronze.  We could use the extra paycheck.  Think you have what it takes to wipe down tables and take the garbage out?"

            "That's not exactly what I was talking about, but, please, bookmark that for a later discussion.  What I meant was, I might have a few pennies saved up somewhere.  Or something worth a few pennies down at the pawnshop."

            "Oh, honey.  I don't want you to do that.  You had to sell your medieval cross-bow last month so that I could break even.  I feel guilty enough about that."

Spike gives a "It's nothing" look and strokes her arm.  "I'll scare something up.  The bloke who runs the pawn shop on Elm has been practically begging me to sell him the Winchester rifle I won in a poker game with Frank and Jesse James."

 "You knew Frank and Jesse James?"

"Oh, absolutely.  Though I only had an opportunity to hang about with them once.  I've never told you this story?"

"Uh uh,"  she says as she shakes her head slowly.

"Oh, well.  Let's see…how to begin…Just about two years after I had been made, my ex and I were bored of the London scene.  We had heard tales about what was going on out in the West in America.  The lawlessness, the gunfights, the Indian slaughters.  It seemed like our sort of place.  We arrived in the summertime.  It was hot as hell and sunny all the soddin' time so we spent most of our days indoors.  Luckily, most of the mayhem didn't start until well after dark, so we didn't miss much.  Dru had disguised herself as a whore and was working a brothel for her late night noshings, so since she was otherwise engaged, I made nice with some of the locals.  It happened one night that Frank and Jesse were in town.  I had heard much about their treachery and was intrigued that two humans could cut such a swath of violence and destruction.    At a saloon, I introduced myself and the two brothers made sport of my foppish attire and proper manners until I grabbed a barmaid and ripped her throat open without spilling a drop of blood.  Yeah, I know.  You're not a fan of the spilling of blood even when it doesn't occur.  But that woman was probably raging with syphillis and would have driven countless cowpokes to madness and blindness.   So I was doing humanity a favor.   After that, I was their honored guest.  I sat down to a lively game of five card stud with the brothers, and two other shifty-looking blokes who smelled of tobacco and prairie dust.  We played several hands and the evening grew a bit long.  I was kept in rapt attention by all the tales of his triumphs.  Amazing fellow, that Jesse.  I offered to make him immortal, but he assured me that he already was…"   Spike sees the non-impressed and very much "you're stake-worthy" expression on Buffy's face.  "And I can tell this isn't the sort of story you like, so perhaps I should take Dawn to the library now."

"Well, don't take too long,"  she says, a naughty glint governing her sage green eyes.  "This is the first night of Dawn's post-grounding and I don't have to work."

"I know that, love.  I'll be back in plenty of time to make you scream,"  he promises, reinforcing the pledge with a slight pinch to her backside. 

The black DeSoto pulls into a well-lighted space in the darkened parking lot.  Long after the engine is shut off, the occupants of the car sit there in silence.  There is a tangible fear in the air, shared between them.  It didn't seem so real when they were on the road, but now, so close to home, the dread they are experiencing clutches at them with calloused hands and they are beginning to suffocate.

"So what are we going to tell her?"  Dawn finally says, twisting her well-chewed straw from her long-finished Coke between her teeth. 

Spike sighs.  "I don't know.  But just let me do the talking."

"Don't worry.  I'm planning on going straight to my room."

"Fine, and leave me holding the bag on this one?  Some partner in crime you are,"  he says, pulling his keys out of the ignition.  "Come on, Nibblet.  We've kept her waiting this long.  If we let any more time pass, I'm going to be a stake house and you're going to be grounded until you're thirty nine and holding."

From the parking lot, it appears that all the occupants of the apartment complex are sound asleep.  There is only one light on, third floor center.  Apartment 3C.  Yes, Buffy has waited up for them.  As Dawn walks to the stairs, her shopping bag from Neiman Marcus in tow, she thinks about how Travis will never see her in the petal pink satin gown she has chosen.  And she looks so good in it too.  The salesperson said so.  And Spike gave her a wolfish grin that had her thinking impure thoughts about her sister's boyfriend.  

It was so much fun.  But now it was over.  It was really over.

As Spike is putting the key in the lock, the door flies open, bringing him with it, into the palpable rage of Buffy's stabbing glare.

"Where the hell have you been?"  she says through gnashing teeth.  "It's almost two in the morning!"

Spike is quick to curtail his lover's anger, but she's not having any of it just yet.  His embrace is rejected with a shove that nearly sends him across the floor.

"Honey bunches of O's!  We're home now, isn't that the important thing?"  he asks.

She folds her arms and begins to pace as tears begin to roll down her cheeks.  "You don't know what you put me through tonight!  I was a basketcase thinking of all the things that might have happened to you.  I went to the pawn shop and the man there said he had seen you at about 4:30.  So I went to all the boutiques in town, the mall.  I went to the library and Amelia said that you never even showed up.  I was frantic at that point.  I called the police.  I called the hospital.  I even called the morgue…"  she says, wiping her face with the back of her hand.  "Now, where did you go?"

Spike and Dawn share a wary glance as though telegraphing to each other, "Where do we start?"

Finally, Spike says, "Sweetheart, Dawn said that everyone in school had probably already chosen their dresses and she didn't want to be wearing something someone had already picked out.  So we started thinking, well, why don't we just go somewhere else.  And that somewhere else just happened to be Los Angeles…"

"What!  You went to LA?  You drove to LA and didn't even fucking bother to call me and tell me that's where you were going?"

"Buffy, it was one of those spur of the moment things.  We were driving and we just suddenly ended up on the freeway.  Isn't that how it was, Dawn?"

"Yeah,"  Dawn says, nodding vigorously.   "Kinda freaky.  Like the freeway just sucked us in or something.  Might have been one of those demony dimension dealies.  Maybe you should tell Giles---

Spike pats Dawn on the shoulder, signaling that he's ready to take the baton.  "Darling, we got to LA 'round six.  We knew we didn't have a lot of time.  We found a mall and the Nibblet tried on every dress on every rack at every store while I sat and held her purse.  Bit of humiliation there, but there were others sharing the same agony.  She finally found a satin dress in Neiman Marcus.  And she looked so pretty in it that everyone in the store almost applauded.  I swear.  If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes… So I paid for the dress and Dawn said she was hungry.  So I took her to Sbarro.  You didn't want her to go hungry, did you?  We each had a slice of pizza and saw all these people queued up to see the pictures at the cinema.  So we took in the nine o'clock showing of _Zoolander_, nice, PG-13 rated fair, safe for the kiddies.  Then we got ice cream at Baskin Robbins and headed home."

Buffy is silent for a few minutes, her arms still crossed.  She is still a bit cross herself.  "Well, I imagine hundreds of horrible scenarios while you were gone, but none quite as frightening as the one you just told me about."  She sighs and rakes her fingers through her tousled hair.  "So at this mall, they had a Neiman Marcus, a Sbarro, a cinemaplex, and a Baskin Robbins.  But there was not a phone to be found to call a worried sister who got left out of the little, innocent jaunt to LA?"

"We really should have, Buffy.  But we thought you might be mad,"  Dawn says.

"Mad!  Why the hell would I be mad?  'Oh, you skipped town with my boyfriend?  That's great!   Send me a postcard!'"

Out of the corner of her mouth, Dawn says, "I told ya we should have gotten that cell phone at Radio Shack."

"And I told you I wasn't ready for wireless yet, Bit,"  he replies, before taking a try at softening Buffy up again.  "Honey, we are sorry.  We were having such a good time we just sort of…lost track of things."

"Well, it was all for nothing.  Dawn, you're grounded again!  No library, no movies and no dance on Friday night!"  Buffy bellows.

"Buffy!  No!   You can't ground me for this!  Please!  Be reasonable!"  Dawn begs, her eyes beginning to tear.

"Yes, I can ground you for this and I'm going to!  Now get to bed.  You have school in six hours."

"Buffy, I know it was wrong for us not to let you know where we were going.  Things just started happening and---

"Dawn, if you don't put away that shovel, you're going to dig yourself right into another week of grounding.  Now get to bed NOW!"

Dawn quivers in Buffy's stare for a few moments before her mouth comes open to a protesting sob.  She aims her eyes at Spike before fleeing the room.  "You promised me…you promised!"

At the sound of Dawn's door slamming shut, Spike moves to touch Buffy, but she backs away.

"Don't!  I don't want you near me,  I don't want you touching me, I don't want you talking to me, I don't want you to do anything but leave this house right now.  I'm so mad at you I could break that coffee table and stake you with every splinter.  Spike, if this is what you meant by coming home in plenty of time to make me scream, I wish you had warned me!"

Spike feels the scalding of her hatred towards him and it feels like old times.  Bad old times.  This is in some ways just what he expected, but not this harsh, not this cruel.  "Buffy…"  he begins softly.  "Don't be like this.  Honey, I told Dawn you wouldn't ground her because you would know that she was safe with me.  I promised her, actually."

"Well, you shouldn't have promised her that.  Now she knows what a liar you can be,"  Buffy says, turning away.

The back of his throat starts to burn.  He blinks away the early tears in his eyes and even though she has warned him not to with every action and every word, he touches her shoulder.  "Buffy, you did know that she was safe.  With me."

Her shoulders tense and then sag under his hand.  "Yes,"  she returns slowly.  "I know you wouldn't hurt her.  But I was thinking about other things while you were gone."  Her body heaves and suddenly she convulses in a heavy flood of emotion.  "I thought, what if you had been in an accident?  I started thinking about what I would do if I lost the two most important people in my life…"

"Oh, God…"  Guilt courses through his body.  Why didn't he think about this?  Why didn't he think she might be worried that something had happened to them?  He had put her through torture without even giving it a second thought.  _I am a demon_, he thinks.  _I am a demon to make my love suffer hell_…He encircles her with his arms, drawing her trembling form against his.  He nuzzles her cheek softly, keenly aware of the hot tears drenching her skin.  "I'm so sorry…I am so, so sorry.  But we're all right, Buffy.  We're safe at home now.  All three of us.  Our little family."

"I just couldn't stop thinking about how lost I would be if something h-happened to you.  I lost my mother.  And that's a pain I'm still trying to get over.  If I lost you and Dawn…"

"You didn't lose us, love.  We're here.  We're all right, Buffy.  We're all right,"  he says, kissing the side of her face.

She turns in his embrace, wrapping her arms around him, nestling her face in the soft cotton of his shirt.  He is so solid and so near.  He is all right and he is with her.  And at that moment she can't think of any place where she'd rather be.  But even as she holds him, that distant worry drifts back into her mind in a taunting whiff, like the scent of the dank water that soiled her prom dress when she died years before.  _What if I lost him_…

"I know why you're really mad,"  he says mischievously, stroking her hair.  "You're just mad that I took your sister out on a date before you."

She has to laugh at this and it is a relief to feel something rising from her chest that isn't a sob.  "Yeah, what's that all about?  You're supposed to be in love with _me_." 

"And I am.  Completely."

"And I am too,"  she says.  She breaks from his embrace to take his hands in her face for a brief kiss.  "Completely."

"So I don't have to leave the house now?"

"No,"  she smiles, swiping her face with the curl of her hand.  "But you're not completely forgiven yet."

"What about Dawn?"

"She's not either.  But she's not grounded anymore."

"We should tell her that now.  Don't want her crying herself to sleep thinking of poor Travis keeping her corsage in his fridge for all eternity, dreaming of what might have been."

"Yeah, we should.  But Spike?"

"Yes?"

She presses a finger to his lips, allowing them to caress the tip in a kiss.  "I want you to promise me you'll never, ever do anything like that again.  Make that your last trip on the irresponsibility train, will you?"

He smiles.  "I'm throwing away the schedule as we speak, love."


	7. Chapter Seven

It is Friday night and Spike has been in the shower for about twenty minutes.  Dawn has been outside the whole time, pounding on the door, listening to him perform Queen's entire oeuvre of operatic ditties.  Right now he's nearing the end of _Bohemian Rhapsody._

_"I see a little siluetto of a man.  Scaramouch!  Scaramouch!  Will you do the fandango?  Thunderbolt of lightning, very, very frightening me!"_

"Come on, Spike!"  Dawn yells as she puts more dents into the bathroom door.  "I appreciate the free concert and all, but I need to get in the shower!  Now!"

"_No, no. no. no, no, no, no!  Mama Mia, Mama Mia!  Mama Mia let me go!  Beelzebub has the devil put aside for me.  For me?  For meeeeeeeeeeee_?"  comes the reply.

Buffy passes by with a load of freshly washed towels for the linen closet.  "You want me to go in there and get him out?"

"Please!  If I don't get in the shower soon, I'll be towel drying my hair all the way to the dance."

Buffy hands the towels to her sister.  "Here.  You put these away and I'll take care of Freddie in there."

The inside of the bathroom is all steam.  He has forgotten to turn the exhaust fan on again.  She flips the switch as she tries to make her way through the fog.

"_So you think you can stake me and spit in my eye?  So you think you can love me and leave me to die?  Oh, Baby.  Can't do this to me baby.  Just gotta get out.  Just gotta get right out of me…_"

That's it.  Time to flush.  Buffy depresses the lever on the tank without thinking twice.

"Gaaaaaaa!!!!!!  Hey!  Showering man here!"  Spike bellows in the shower.

"Showering for almost thirty minutes man, you mean.  Now get out before I suddenly decide to run the dish washer."

That was all he needed to know apparently.  Within seconds, the water shuts off, lingering to drips.  The wet-headed vamp peeps his head out from behind the curtain.  Through the mist he discerns the figure of his mischievous ladylove standing there with her arms folded and a broad smirk on her face.

"You're evil,"  he says with a smile.

"Yup.  Rotten to the core."

He steps out of the shower and Buffy gasps.  Seeing him in this light with the mist obscuring him, it's as though she's witnessing the creation of Adam.  She observes his muscles as his arm reaches for a towel.  He begins drying his hair first, letting the droplets splatter the wall carelessly.  She knows he is doing this on purpose.  She wants him to see him in all his glorious, wet nakedness.  She has seen him naked hundreds of times.  Sometimes when Dawn's not at home he will walk around starkers.  He has no inhibitions about his body.  His body is drenched.  And suddenly so is she.

For a minute she is led into a fierce fantasy in which she is naked as well and he is taking her right there on the cold linoleum of the bathroom floor.  She licks the droplets from his face as he grinds into her.  She combs her hands through the mass of kinky curls on his head.  She enjoys the sensation of his body warmed by the heat of the shower.  His cold lips encircle her nipple and she feels his teeth sinking in again…

He is still wrangling with the towel and his hair when he approaches her, slowly, in that panther-like stalk that used to give her the chills, but now makes her feel as though she could fuck him in front of a stadium crowd.  On Jumbo Vision, even.  He puts the towel around his shoulders, not minding that he is creating inch-deep puddles on the floor with each step.  He leans into her, saying in a whisper she can barely hear above the whirl of the exhaust fan.

"I'm out now."

"Yeah,"  is all she can say, noting that the little corporal is standing at attention.  She wants to strip right then and there.  She wants to feel the steam from his epic shower on her skin while its still fresh and potent.  The closer he gets, the more aware of his scent she becomes.  He is a bouquet of deodorant soap and herbal shampoo.  He is apparently aware of her scent as well.  His eyes are lit by the consciousness of her arousal.  She is more than aroused.  She is clawing at herself from the inside to keep from screaming.

He displays a wicked grin now.  He is keeping his distance from her, aware that the touch of his skin is what she wants more than anything in the world right now.  If she wants it, she has to ask, nicely.  

"The shower's free now,"  he drawls seductively.

"Yes, I know,"  she swallows.  "Dawn needs to use it…for her date."

He clicks his tongue.  "That might take some time.  If she wants to be all sweet and perfumed for her love crumpet."

"There isn't a lot of time, though.  For showering."

"I guess I took too long."

"Yeah.  I guess you did."

"Quickie, then?"

"Oh, God, yes!  But!  We have to be cool about it.  You can be cool…can't you?"

"Watch me,"  he says, snaking a naughty tongue out of his mouth.

Dawn is still waiting by the door when Buffy emerges and shuts the door behind her.  She can feel the flush on her cheeks and tries hard to tamp down the thrill in her voice when she speaks.

"He'll be right out,"  Buffy says, running a hand up and down her arm nervously.   

            Spike then opens the door, still drying his hair, his soon-to-be tossed towel hanging low on his hips.

"Sorry, Nibblet.  I suppose I know more Queen songs then previously thought,"  he tells her.

Dawn says nothing and merely moves him aside, slinging a towel over her shoulder and entering the still steamy bathroom.  As she closes the door, Spike, in a flourish, whips the towel down from around his waist and snaps it at Buffy's backside.  

"Tag!  You're it!"  he says gleefully as she gives chase down the hall.

"Spike, stop it!  We're supposed to be inconspicuous!"  she shrieks.  

"There you go using twenty-five cent words when ten cent ones will do."  They are in the bedroom now and as the door is shut, Spike forces Buffy against the wood as she continues to smile as though heavily drugged.  "I'll give you my ten cents' worth, love."  He crushes his mouth to hers, aware that she's giggling.  Her glee is infectious and he finds himself laughing too as he flings her to the bed.  As she bounces on the mattress, his thighs catch her mid-recoil as he straddles her mercilessly.

"There's a problem,"  Buffy says.

"What's that?"  he says, rubbing his throbbing member against the fabric of her gray sweatpants.

"I've still got clothes on,"  she pouts.

Spike arches his left eyebrow tauntingly before letting out a growl and dipping his head towards the waistband of her pants.  She lifts her hips, allowing him to pull the pants down with his teeth.  He guides the garment down, pausing at the area between her thighs, inhaling deeply.  He pushes the crotch of her panties aside and slides into her without so much as a warning.  Sometimes it has to be slow and consciously drawn out, when there's time to touch and explore, so that they can remind themselves that they are two creatures in love.   Sometimes it has to be rough and animalistic, harking back to the fact that they are creatures whose drives are born from dark and unseemly places.  And sometimes it just has to be quick because they have a permanent chaperone who happens to be very impressionable fifteen-year-old girl.  Little do they know that two doors down the hall, their adolescent watcher is in the shower, laughing about the pair's lame attempt at stealth, sudsing up with the radio turned up as far up as it will go.   She can imagine that right about now Spike is riding her sister like a Harley.  And she can imagine that they are keeping a careful ear tuned into her showering, waiting for the tell-tale last droplets to drain from the shower head.  And she can imagine that she will indeed be towel drying her hair as she leaves the house this night because she has to stay in the shower way past the prune hand stage.  She's seen Spike in a towel.  She understands.

Buffy walks out into the hallway, leaving the bathroom door open to ventilate the much-used space.  She has just taken her own shower.  The cool of the apartment spirits goose pimples on her exposed flesh and she creeps down the hallway to her room, wishing that she had brought her flannel p.j.'s to change into in the warmth of the bathroom.  The apartment is silent and she finds this exceedingly odd.  There's always some noise, somewhere, either from the TV in the living room or from Dawn's stereo.  She enters her bedroom, aware that the lights are blazing and expecting that the man she left reclining on the bed is still in repose and waiting for her.

"Now, Spike, I know I'm in a towel and everything, but Dawn's in the next room now and she can hear us so don't EVEN think that you can pull that make Buffy 'eee eee eee stuff,"  she says into an empty room.

The room _is_ empty.  

The bed is still rumpled from their rough and tumble, but it is not occupied.  

"Spike?"  she calls, feeling silly.  The room is tiny.  He's either not there or very small himself.  And she knows that's not true.  She slips on a tee-shirt and a pair of sweats and walks out into the hall, rapping at Dawn's bedroom door.  "Dawnie?  Where'd Spike go?"

"I dunno,"  Dawn says from the other side.  "He just said that he had to go for a while."  

Buffy really doesn't have to ask why.  He's making himself scarce tonight to avoid a replay of what happened the last time Travis squired Dawn around the town.  She shakes her head and presses against the door to find her sister inside, fussing with her long, thick locks of still damp hair.  It looks as though she's trying to sweep her hair up into a bun that won't quite firm up, even with the constrictions of tens of thousands of bobby pins.  She turns a pleading face to Buffy, a bobby pin clinched in her teeth.

"This isn't working,"  she says.

Buffy sighs, taking a strand of her sister's wet hair in her hand.  "I'm sorry.  But we can still salvage the wreck."

"You think?"  Dawn asks hopefully.

"Listen, I went to Homecoming fresh from a demon fight-for-life AND a limosine ride with Cordelia Chase and I still looked ravishing…or ravaged.  Either way, I'll do something.  I may not be a witch like Willow, but I know a few things about cosmetic magic.  Hand me the blow-dryer."

As Buffy dries the remaining moisture from Dawn's raven hair, Dawn dives into the make-up tray, spreading unneeded base over her youthful glow and lining her eyes with an indigo pencil.  Buffy remembers a time when Dawn used to beg their mother to buy pretend cosmetics at the supermarket and their mother warning that she was too young, even for pretend cosmetics.  And here she is now, applying Clinique like a pro, even knowing that in a pinch, a Q-tip can erase the most hideous of make-up mistakes.  Buffy tries not to look in the mirror.  Every time she does, she sees her sister getting older…and herself getting older as well.  Her sweet sister, seven years old yesterday, it seems, getting ready for her first big dance tonight.

A smile bewitches Buffy's countenance as she secures another pin to Dawn's scalp.  "You're not nervous, are you?"

"Me?  No.  What would give you that idea?"  Dawn asks as her shaky hand doodles an unintended jagged line on her eyelid.  She reaches for a tissue to correct the mistake, silently cursing herself.

"You're going to have such a good time tonight, Dawn."

"No pressure there, Buff,"  Dawn says, trying her hand again at lining her left eye.  

            "I mean it, Dawn.  Just helping you get ready is making me want to live my high school years all over again.  Minus the times I was having to club nasties instead of just plain clubbing."

            "You know, I was always kind of jealous of you being the Slayer when I was growing up.   I mean, you always got the late curfew because you needed the extra time for the Slaying and the saving the world and all.  And you always got Mom's understanding when you were late because you were probably doing something important like keeping the Hellmouth from opening or keeping downtown Sunnydale from being overrun with zombies.  And you got to play with crossbows and maces while I had to use those blunt scissors with the rubber handles until, like, last year.  But I guess, all in all, when you really think about it, being the Slayer in high school really must have sucked.  It's bad enough just being a normal kid.  Not that I'm all that normal.  Hello!  Key in human form here."

            Buffy reaches for another pin, holding it between her lips as she combs out another strand of hair.  "I don't have any regrets about being the Slayer.  When I turned eighteen, you might remember that the Council put me through that hell test.  I didn't have any powers.  I was just like everyone else, except I was being hunted by a psychotic vampire.  That's when I realized that being the Slayer, as inconvenient as it may be from time to time, is what I am.  It's my identity.  As soon as I came to terms with who I was, life got a lot easier.  The choices I have to make sometimes are not easy, but just knowing that I wouldn't have this life if I weren't the Slayer puts everything in perspective.  I mean, if I weren't the Slayer, the Monks never would have sent you to me to protect and I can't imagine life without you."

            Dawn's mouth comes open and Buffy can see in the mirror that her eyes are beginning to tear.  "Aw, Buffy…as much trouble as I've been lately?"

"You're just being a teenager, Dawn.  I was twenty times worse than you are.  You haven't set fire to your high school yet, have you?"

"Nah.  Not that I haven't thought of it, though.  Especially before a chemistry quiz."

"Well, just keep something like that in the thinking stage, Dawnie.  It's not as glamorous as it sounds."

Dawn's hair is now pinned and tucked into a sleek and prom perfect updo and her make-up is slightly overdone, but tasteful.  And when she slips into the petal pink gown purchased on the devil-may-care shopping spree in L.A., Buffy can understand why everyone in the store did stop and stare.  She is the picture of style in this dress, somewhere between Audrey and Katharine Hepburn.  Somewhere in heaven Coco Channel is applauding enthusiastically.  Buffy happens to catch a glimpse at the price tag as Dawn cuts it off  and discards it into the wastepaper basket.  

"Twelve hundred dollars?"  Buffy mouths in awe.   "This dress cost twelve hundred dollars?"

"Relax, Buffy.  It's paid for."

"Make sure you don't get anything on it.  That's three month's rent you're wearing there."

"I thought it was kind of pricey too but Spike insisted.  He said he didn't want anyone thinking his 'special little lady' was a second hand Rose."

_That boyfriend of mine_, Buffy thinks, still reeling from the sight of quadruple digits on something that wasn't a credit card statement or a past due notice.  She wonders what else Spike keeps in his crypt.

The doorbell rings then and both girls lock eyeballs, knowing that the seven o'clock hour has arrived.  It's date time. 

"Now, Dawnie, remember that if you're going to be any later than eleven o'clock, please call me,"  Buffy says worriedly as she follows her sister into the living room.

"I promise,"  Dawn says, touching her head to make sure her hair isn't about to fall down.

"And no drinking!"

"OK.  No drinking.  Not even the Sprite and sherbet punch at the dance.  I swear."

"And don't get in a car with someone's whose been drinking.  Better yet, don't get in a car with anyone who isn't a parent."

"And what if the parent has been drinking?"

"Then you call me.  I put thirty-five cents in your purse in case of an emergency."

"OK.  I won't blow it all in a gumball machine."

"And Dawn.  If Travis gets a case of wandering hands, you put him in his place.  You call in the umpire if he even tries to round second base, OK?"

Dawn rolls her eyes.  "It's going to be kind of hard to go to second base with a chaperone at the wheel, even if he is drunk off his ass."  Dawn lays a gentle hand on her sister's cheek.  "I'll be fine, Buffy.  This is my second date.  I'm practically a pro."

Buffy opens the door to find Travis standing there, a boxed orchid in his right hand, a look of delight on his face when he sees Dawn.  He's not looking too shabby himself in his dark blue suit and red and blue striped tie.  It looks brand-box new and tailored just for him.  And his hair is actually combed back, revealing the soft handsomeness of his adolescent face.  He smiles brightly as he greets both girls, telling Dawn that she looks fabulous.

"Oh…you guys!"  Buffy says, a little embarrassed by the girlish enthusiasm in her voice.  "You look so great!  Picture!  I've got to take a picture!"

As Buffy dashes into her bedroom for her Polaroid, she hears Travis mutter again that Dawn looks beautiful and then the distinct sound of a kiss being delivered.  She fully expects to find them making out when she returns, instead the two are standing almost at an arms length, exchanging shy glances.  

_They are so adorable_, Buffy thinks, looking at the through the lens as Travis slips the corsage onto Dawn's wrist.  She thinks she's about to cry.  Realizing that her emotions are about to get the best of her, she hurries them out of the apartment, aided by Travis who has secured dinner reservations for 7:30 that they can't be late for.  As the pair exits the apartment, Buffy faces the emptiness with a sob that rises in her chest so quickly she's almost knocked down by the sudden exhilaration.  She doesn't know why she is crying.  Is she a little envious of her sister?  Is it the sight of young love in bloom?  She doesn't have long to think about why the tears are coursing down her cheeks.  The doorbell sounds again.  If it's Dawn coming back for something she has forgotten, she has to dry her tears right away.  She can't let her see how all this is affecting her.  She doesn't even know _why_ all this is affecting her. 

She goes cautiously to the door, wiping her face with the underside of her teeshirt.  A glimpse through the peephole shows nothing but a bunch of flowers.  _Flowers_?

Buffy undoes the series of locks with jittery hands, still sniffling, but curious about the anonymous floral tribute behind door number one.  Once the door is opened, there is a man standing there, holding a bright bouquet of daisies, black-eyed susans, and marigolds before his face.  He peeks out from behind the flowers, smiling ear to ear, his blue eyes at once impish and anticipatory. 

Buffy realizes instantly that there if there is one sight more breath-taking than that of her lover in his all-together, it is the sight of him dressed in a tuxedo.  For a minute she thinks her eyes may be deceiving her and she has to stare, well past the point of rudeness, to fully comprehend what she is seeing.  And _why_.   Had she missed something in an earlier conversation about tonight?

As she is staring, his countenance falls into a look of concern.

"What's wrong?"  he asks, dropping the flowers to his side.  "You look as though you've been crying."

"I was,"  she says softly, the skin on her face tightening under her drying tears.  Now there is too much curiosity in her to feel any kind of despair.  "What's all this?"

"I'm here to pick you up for our date, love,"  he says, as though she should have been expecting him.

"We have a date?"

"Hope so.  Otherwise the limo I've rented and the dinner reservations I've made are all for naught."

Buffy's head is beginning to spin as she tries to take all this in.  She stands back to look at Spike, dressed in a finely cut black tuxedo that makes him looks as though he's just broken with his plastic existence on top of a wedding cake and is stepping out for the first time into real life.  He is perfection, from his slicked-back platinum coif to the tips of his highly shined patent leather shoes.  However, there is nothing stiff in his appearance in his formal regalia.  He is made to wear the clothes that fit him so snugly, as though finally displaying the genuine class he keeps hidden under the veneer of rebelliousness and primeval sexuality.

"But what am I going to wear?"  she asks, still a little stunned.

He thinks about this for a minute before handing her the flowers and ducking beside the doorway to retrieve a white box with a bright pink bow.  "I think you'll find something in this box that might do for an evening on the town."

She sets the flowers down on the table beside the door and scoots the bow down the varnished surface of the box.  Propping the box against the back of the sofa, she lifts the lid and dives into the layers of pink tissue paper to reveal a cerulean blue dress with the thinnest of spaghetti straps and briefest of lengths.  As she holds it up against her, she notices the still attached price tag fluttering next to the bodice.  Another dress that obviously didn't come off the half price rack.

"Oh, my God!"  Buffy gasps.

"It's a beauty, isn't it?"  Spike beams.  

"It's fifteen hundred dollars!"

"Yeah.  But if that's the going rate for helping my beautiful princess dress the part, that's what it had to be."

"But Spike.  That's a lot of money.  That could put food on the table for six months.  That could go towards a down payment for a house.  That could go into Dawn's college fund.  That could---

"That could feed a starving child in Africa for five thousand years.  Blah, blah, blah.  Tonight we're not dealing with practicalities, love.  Tonight we are going out and sparing no expense.  We shall dine and dance in style.  This is our night, Buffy, to do as we please.  There are no apocalypses to avert, no demonic ascensions to put the kibosh on, no hell gods to pound into a bloody paste with a troll hammer."  He takes both of her hands in his and places a gentle kiss on her surprise-parted lips.  "Tonight is all about the two of us."

She might have known when Spike finally took her out for an actual date, he wouldn't skimp on the romance.   Already she feels herself being swept away.  She tells herself not to keep asking the why's and the how's and to concentrate on the here and the now.  She leaps into his arms, wrapping her legs around his waist and layering kisses upon kisses on his shocked face.  

"Oh, I love you, love you, LOVE YOU!"  she says between fevered kisses as he tries to steady himself on the floor.

"Easy now, pet.  There'll be time for smoochies later.  Big ones, I hope.  But the driver is waiting and we have reservations at Le Jardin in twenty.  Go get dressed and we can start making everyone green with envy about how fucking beautiful we are."

The night air fuses coolly with Buffy's bare skin as she holds Spike close to her.  The cold cement underfoot is a balm to her aching feet, confined for too long in too tight strappy heels, which she holds in her left hand over Spike's shoulder.  Overhead the stars stretch out in a glittered tapestry that stretches for miles and miles.  There is a wisp of smoke in the air.  It is late fall and some in Sunnydale are warming themselves by firelight this evening.  The sounds of the city swirl all around them on their rooftop dance floor and from this perch they have a perfect view of the patterned subdivisions and tree-lined avenues, but tonight they are not concerned with what is going on down below because this is their night, unmarred by a single apocalyptic event, save a small incident involving the matter of tipping at the restaurant.

Buffy leans her head against Spike's collarbone and sighs blissfully, her inner contentment just about swelling her heart two sizes larger than before.  "Mmmm,"  she says finally.  "This is the best part."

Spike has to chuckle a little at this.  "Typical.  Rented limousine, $150.  Dinner at Sunnydale's most exclusive restaurant, $95.  A slow dance on top of a low-rent apartment building, priceless."  He bends to kiss her by her ear and whispers, "If I had known this was all you wanted out of the evening, I could have saved a few pennies."

"No,"  she protests lazily, drawing her finger down the lapel of his tuxedo jacket, "The limousine ride, the dinner, everything---fantabulous.  But this---just being alone with you, up where no one can touch us.  This is, like…like…"  She lets out a brief sigh of frustration at her mind's failing to find the words that could adequately describe what she's feeling now.  "My head's still a little fuzzy from all the champagne, I think."

"Still not completely cleared up, pet?"

"I did have three glasses."

Spike sniggers.  "Lightweight."

"That would be me."

"You were so cute when you asked the waiter to bring a bottle with a fewer bubbles the next time."

"Well, the bubbles were making me have burpies.  There must be a kind of champagne without all the bubbles."

"There is.  It's called wine, love."

Buffy shrugs.  "I guess that's why I suck as a waitress."

"Fortunately I don't have a problem with your sucking."

Spike places a kiss on her temple and squeezes the hand she holds over his stilled chest, enjoying the loveliness in his arms.  It's at times like these that he hears the voices the loudest, the ones that tell him inside his head that this is not real, that what is happening can't be true.  He has lived through enough alternative realities and misguided demonic and Wiccan spells to know that some things are not always what they seem.  If this is a trick, if there is some mastermind behind this passion beside the force of love, he doesn't want to know.  Whatever caused him to fall through this trap door in life and into this world where he is loved and cared for and counted on, he is grateful.  

"Buffy,"  he says against her forehead, "We've been talking a lot lately about what the future holds and forever and all that.  And I do think from time to time about where all this is going and how much I would hate it if everything we have did go away.  But the fact that you love me, that you've let me into your life against the wishes of practically everyone you know, and probably against all the good sense and instincts you have…that means more to me than you can ever know.  This time with you, no matter how long we have together, is all I've ever wanted.  I can't think of a greater happiness and I don't want it to end.  So I wanted to take this evening to let you know how precious you are to me and how much I love you and always will."

"Oh, honey,"  she replies, her earlier emotion returning to her eyes.  Who would have thought that the heart she had been targeting for so long with the point of her stake could contain such love, and for her, his would-be assassin.  No matter how perverse their coupling may seem to the outside world, and even to herself sometimes, tonight it has never seemed so right.  They seem to be in a place somewhere outside reality and they are hovering above their existence, literally, with their earthly home just two floors down below where their feet sweep across a moonlit dance floor of their own imagination.  She brings his lips to hers in a soft kiss, loving the moment, loving him, loving the close proximity of their bodies weaving a slow magic into the darkness of the night.

Once the kiss is broken, Spike murmurs against her open mouth, "Turn around.  There's something I want to give you."

She reluctantly leaves the comfort of his arms and faces away from him.  A rush of cold air rushes down the front of her dress and she shivers slightly.

"Close your eyes,"  he instructs in a whisper.

With her neck exposed to him and her position a top a nine-story building, she can't help thinking that this is a Watcher's worst nightmare for a Slayer whose defenses have been dulled by the rapture of a vampire's seduction.  Soon she feels something cool and light being draped around her bare throat and then the sensation of a slippery disk of ice gliding quickly into her cleavage.  She reaches to stop the intruder and holds in her hands now a round medallion.  Her eyes still tightly closed, she tries to define the object through touch.  Her fingertip traces a hinge and then a corrugated metal knob at the top near the chain.  Finally she does open her eyes and finds between her hands the watch she has perceived through touch.

"It's beautiful,"  she says, admiring the sleek platinum surface before popping the piece open to examine the face.  Moonlight glints off the mother of pearl inside, revealing stark roman numerals.  

"It's been in my family, as they say, for generations,"  Spike tells her.  "I think me Mum was hoping I would be able to pass it down to one of my sprog.  I was going to hock it, but the bloke at the pawnshop was so taken with the Winchester rifle, I didn't need it.  So I took it over to the jewelers, had them fashion it into a necklace, and put the inscription on the inside."

The almost imperceptible inner works of the watch beat gently against the palm of her hand like a tiny heartbeat.  "There's an inscription?"

"Yeah, here,"  he says, producing his Zippo from one of his interior pockets.  The burst of butane flames against a scroll of carefully scripted words etched into the inside.

"'I've got all the time for you, love,'"  Buffy reads aloud, her voice slightly catching on the word, "time."    

"It may not protect you like a cross and it won't make Anya whip out her jeweler's loop to gauge just how generous I am to my ladylove, but it is a part of me, a part of who I was and, in some ways, the person you've restored me to.  I just wanted to say, thank you for recreating the monster."

A bright smile drapes in a scarlet shank across the bottom of his pale face.  His eyes burrow into hers as he draws her face to his.  She lets the watch fall again against her skin as she wraps her arms around him in a desperate clutch.  There is such ferocity in her love for him right now she feels that even if she did make love this very second and make it last into eternity, or for all the time they have, it still wouldn't be enough.    All the time she is in his embrace she is aware of the ticking between them and regards the gift suddenly as a rude interloper.  "Don't remind me of _that_,"  she wants to say to the watch.  "Just remind me of _this_."

From her last glimpse at the watch, she knows it's getting late and though she hates to tell him this, one of their own is out tonight and is expected back at any moment.

"Dawn will be home soon,"  she says in a sigh, continuing to kiss him down the sharp line of his left cheekbone.

"I know,"  he says in mock breathlessness.  "Do we have time for one more dance?"

"I think the chaperone will allow that,"  she answers, angling for his mouth again.

He takes her again in his arms, sweeping her gently across the rooftop, her feet barely touching the ground.  She leans against his stilled chest, against the monster, against all odds.  Her mind shuts off the insistent ticking beside her leaping heart and she listens now to the inner music in her head as they endeavor to close the place with just one last dance.  She doesn't want to think about time or the lack there of.  All she wants to think of now is the fact that when this is all over, she is going to put away the dress she is wearing and be able to attach to it the memory of the sweet perfection of this night.  

Tonight they are not merely dancing.  They are dancing on the edge of forever.

_End_


End file.
